Just One of Those Things
by saudade do coracao
Summary: ON INDEFINITE HIATUS. "You can't stop me. I could blast you to tomorrow," threatened Hermione. Zabini looked unimpressed. "I think you've forgotten who you're dealing with," he said. "You're evenly matched here. I can do anything you can." AU Post HBP. BZ/HG.
1. The Way You Look Tonight

Disclaimer: If I were the author of Harry Potter, I would be using my money to travel the world writing original works at my leisure instead of writing fan fiction in hurried snatches in an obscure corner of the globe.

* * *

She still remembered the first time he noticed her. Later he would say that it was not the first time by far, but she was never sure if she believed him. In any case, that was the first time Hermione became aware of his noticing her, and therefore she recalled it as the turning point in their relationship.

She had changed into the clothing required for the assignment. The outfit was nothing special, just a tool to project the required image of elegant professionalism. Black pencil skirt, matching heels, a merlot silk blouse, hair smoothed back into a French twist, a string of pearls at her throat. After months of living in survival mode, it felt good to put on something feminine and pay attention to her appearance. Though the outfit was just that of a typical female office worker, it helped her to remember for a moment that she was a woman and not only one unit in a group struggling to fight and survive. She lifted her shoulders with confidence and dabbed on just a bit of perfume before folding away the self-remembrance and turning her mind to the task at hand. She left the room and firmly closed the door, promising herself that if - when - she survived, she would open the room again and explore the selfhood that she had remembered there. But for the sake of all that was important to her, she must remain simply a member of the faction for now. If individuality emerged, the cohesiveness of the unit would be broken, and their cause would be jeopardised.

He was waiting for her in the foyer between the rooms of their suite. She didn't look at him as she crossed the room to the coat rack where she had hung her robe. Not facing him was childish, she knew, but she could only handle so much. She would have to deal with him enough in the next few hours. As she settled the soft black robe over her shoulders, her mind flitted to the mission ahead. Logistics, spells, and strategy flooded her thoughts. Had she forgotten anything? Her mind ran down the checklist. No, she had everything. The question was, had _he _forgotten anything? She turned her head to look at him and asked, "Did you owl-?" Her question was half-finished when she realised he looked strange. She stopped speaking and turned fully to study him.

It was his jaw. His mouth was relaxed. That was what had struck her as different about him. For months now, ever since he had joined them, he had walked around with his jaw clenched and his neck muscles strained. Those were the only two signs she had, ever, that Blaise Zabini was under any pressure. Not that she had ever gotten closer to find more. It was hard to accept that the pampered Slytherin acquaintance of Malfoy's was now one of them, and though he and she were always distantly polite to one another, she remained wary. She hadn't been exactly thrilled to realise that so much rested on his trustworthy cooperation, nor that he had been chosen to go with her alone and help carry out the mission. And now he was behaving uncharacteristically, which could potentially mean trouble for her.

Hermione analysed him carefully. His jaw had tipped her off, but there was something different about his whole expression. It was the way his entire face was unguarded, as she noticed now that she was paying attention. His mask had slipped. And in that brief moment she had a glimpse of what he was feeling. He looked a bit dazed, as if he had just apparated into the middle of Lisbon when he had expected to end up in a sheep pasture in Yorkshire. His eyes had softened, but they also looked greedy - hungry, like he was looking at chests of gold or the deed to a sprawling estate in Ravenna or whatever it was that interested a Zabini. She couldn't claim to know. But mostly he looked surprised and confused. And suddenly the mask slipped back into place, the eyes steeled, the jaw clenched. The moment was over before she could process it.

"The Order to let them know we've arrived?" he finished her question. She had almost forgotten she had asked something and had to stop to recall what it had been. He went on haughtily. "Of course I did. I know it's difficult when you haven't had better company, but try to come to terms with the idea that not everyone is as incompetent as those pea-brained louts you call your friends."

She bristled and almost rose to the bait. Almost. That was the longest insult he had spared her since he had joined the Order, and it didn't zing sharply like the ones she had heard him use before. He was trying too hard. It was cover. He knew she had noticed something different about him, and he was trying to throw her off the trail. This ability to quickly pick up on tiny details and string them together to reveal valuable information was perhaps the skill she had honed most during the conflict. The war had forced her to survive by it. It had served her well until now, so she would continue to rely on it. And now it told her that he was hedging. So she only said, with a calm voice, "Good." Inside she returned to the mental path her thoughts had been taking before his mask reappeared. What had caused him to react that way? Any information she could glean about him would be valuable, especially if he was trying to hide it. What had he been looking at, anyway? When she had been looking at him, she had had the feeling that he was looking at _her_, but that couldn't be right. She glanced behind her. The only things there were the coat rack, the wall, and a small table with a vase of fresh bellflowers on it. Nothing noteworthy. She couldn't puzzle it out.

He was still watching her. "Are you ready?" he finally asked, each word packed with as much scorn as possible. She gave up, for the moment. There was nothing there to look at. He was strange and she didn't understand him. She would work on the mystery later. Now there was work to do. "Yes, actually," she answered evenly. She did not want to fight with him, today of all days. She did not even want to go with him, but she trusted her friends and loved her cause, and both asked her to do this. She pulled the bottle of Polyjuice Potion from her robe pocket as he lifted one from his. Staring each other down, they uncorked their bottles and drank. As the familiar, sickening potion entered her mouth, Hermione promised herself she would make this mission successful if it killed her. Or him. And she meant that in the most literal sense.


	2. River, Stay Away From My Door

Blaise and Hermione apparated to Westminster. Silently they began walking to their destination. Ten minutes had passed since they left the hotel when Blaise realised that his mind had been occupied with Hermione Granger ever since she had stepped out of her room. He became angry with himself. That was too long. It was the unexpected change in her that had been occupying his mind, her more subdued manner, her sparser use of words. At school she had been harsh, blunt, immediate. Now she thought everything through carefully, chewing on it, before expressing herself in the briefest of words. He used to enjoy watching Draco insult her just because he liked seeing her hackles rise before she would launch her own verbal assault. Sometimes he had even insulted her himself, just for her reaction. It was true that later on she would often allow insults directed at herself to slide, but she had _never _allowed anyone to attack her friends unchallenged. But he just had insulted her friends, and all she had said, with a little frown puckering the space between her eyebrows, was "Good." She had chosen not to hear the insult, and how often did she do that, even if it had been a poor blow?

He knew it was an effect the war was having on her. He couldn't decide whether it was positive or negative. It was a benefit in that she remained more rational at all times. She had been able to turn that bookish brain into a force that dealt daily with harsh practicalities, and that was a tremendous asset to the Order. But at the same time, the fire had gone out of her. It seemed nothing could stir her up, to excitement or anger, from the placid blankness she had settled into. There was no spark in her anymore. And because of this, he could no longer recognise her as Hermione Granger. But why did he even care? He didn't; it was only that she was a member of the group with which he had thrown his lot. Each one of them carried great responsibility. If any one of them failed or cracked, the rest would suffer. He wasn't risking everything just so a Muggle-born could be the weak link that landed him on the receiving end of the Dark Lord's wand.

Blaise hadn't been pleased when the Order had chosen him to accompany Granger on this mission. He didn't want anything to do with her. Never had. He just wanted to stay as far away from her as possible, and he believed the feeling was mutual. So why the Order would force the two of them to work together on a task of such proportions was beyond him. But they had insisted, dropping descriptions like "brightest witch," "loyal," "nondescript," and "one of our most trusted members." Privately he had interpreted "smart aleck," "goody-two-shoes," "unattractive," and "duplicate of Harry, Lupin, and etc." Just the kind of person he didn't want to be going with anywhere. But here he was, walking alongside her anyway.

He told himself to stop thinking about her already and to focus on the task at hand. The problem was, he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to be going to the Ministry of Magic like he was now, prepared to spring out high-ranking prisoners. There, just thinking all that in one go made him want to run in the other direction and sling a few firewhiskeys down his throat before apparating to the ends of the earth, where he could forget and be forgotten. He hadn't asked for this. He had wanted to calmly await the outcome of the war while he sat in an easy chair in the Zabini Villa on La Maddalena. He didn't want anyone to bother him, and he didn't want to bother anyone. All he ever wanted was a comfortable life of anonymity, with as little association with wankers as possible. But the Dark Lord and his followers had not allowed him that option, and after a few too many encounters with pushy Death Eaters, Blaise had realised that he had to make his choice or it was going to be made for him. So he had chosen the Order, mostly because he didn't want to make a mess killing someone and killing wasn't something he thought Order members were routinely asked to do. Maybe it wasn't, but he was discovering the Order had no problems with routinely asking its members to go on suicide missions. The Order functioned as though all its members had death wishes. Come to think of it, most of them probably did. That would explain so many things, like the incident with Tonks, Lupin, and the Weasley twins in Diagon Alley last week. Or the fact that Harry and Ron were nine days late owling the Order. Things like that.

He really had to stop thinking. It didn't do any good. He was going to do this because he had to, and that was all there was to it. He was a dead man already, either way, so it wasn't like this altered his lease on life. And there was no Zabini Villa waiting for him to go back to anymore. They approached the entrance to the Ministry, and he steeled himself. This was it.

* * *

The night before there had been a frenzied, late-night meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. It was Percy's fault. Ever since his restoration to his family's good graces, Percy had kept a portrait in his flat that was linked with one at the Burrow. Last night he had used it to contact his parents with some critical information. Tomorrow (today now) the Ministry of Magic was going to put two high-ranking political prisoners on trial. The identity of these prisoners was as classified as of yet, but tomorrow certain members of the press would be allowed to attend the trial. That was all.

Arthur and Molly had quickly owled every member of the Order whose whereabouts were known, and so it was that every member who could be there on short notice had ended up in the living room of the Burrow. There were not many people there. Most of the surviving members of the Order were out completing various missions. But the few who could make it were trying, with foreboding, to process the significance of the information. Harry and Ron had not been seen in thirteen days and were nine days late in owling, and everyone's fear was that the two boys were the prisoners in question.

As the night grew old, the Order formulated a plan. It required three to four members, almost a third of those present. Hermione, Fred, and George had volunteered immediately. It was decided that Fred and George were uniquely suited to complete the half of the mission that had could have been completed by only one member. Hermione would be assigned the most important half of the mission. Hermione's half required a second member's participation. After putting their heads together to decide the best member for the job, the Order had asked Blaise to do it. With some persuasion, he had said yes.

That was how the next day found Blaise and Hermione posing as members of the _Daily Prophet _to gain entry to the Ministry of Magic, while Fred and George sabotaged Rita Skeeter on her way to the Ministry. Really, it was a perfect plan, thought Blaise. Just the kind of thing the Weasley twins liked to do, and hadn't everyone always spotted Granger as a writer? Well, when they weren't spotting her as a librarian, lawyer, auror, healer, or any of the other things "the brightest witch of her age" could do well. The part he didn't follow was why the Order had spotted him as a photographer. He looked down with dislike at the bulky camera in his hands. Well, the ruse was working, and apparently the Weasley boys were doing their job well. Granger had marched up and sweetly demanded entry while flashing her press card. Security had passed them through to higher-ranking security, where they went through the same routine. They were questioned. Granger did all the talking. Blaise stalked behind her and watched. No, Rita Skeeter wasn't coming today; she was ill. No, Granger (or Sybil Watson now) wasn't new to the _Daily Prophet_; she had been working there as an editor for some time. It was just now that she was taking on some writing responsibilities. Yes, it was unusual for a new writer to be covering something this high-profile, but due to her long employment with the _Daily Prophet, _her senior editors had confidence in her. And - here she added a wink - she could assure them that her coverage of this story would be a hundred times more electrifying than anything Rita Skeeter could whip up. Those no-good prisoners would be wallowing in their due.

Having never worked with Granger before, Blaise was surprised at her versatility and capability. Here he had just been musing over her apparent depression, and now she was doing a brilliant imitation of a second Rita Skeeter. They were passed through without further comment.

The plan was to lay low until they knew who the prisoners were. If it were Harry and Ron, they had to flesh out and execute last night's hastily formulated escape plan on the spot. If not, they were to play it by ear. There were a few other members whom the prisoners might turn out to be, and Hermione and Blaise were expected to consider the risks against the benefits before pursuing any course of action. Yeah, that sounded great. He was basically supposed to decide whether two people would live or die today. And here he had joined the Order so he wouldn't have to deal with things like that.

* * *

A/N: The story title and the titles of chapters one and two are taken from the same-titled songs sung by Frank Sinatra.


	3. Yes I Can

John Dawlish and Dolores Umbridge were on trial. How those two had managed to get indicted together was something Hermione didn't understand and, frankly, didn't care to know. The prosecuting argument consisted of some mess about embezzlement, Fanged Geraniums, and espionage on behalf of the wizarding government of France. But obviously that wasn't why they were on trial at all. They had managed to get on the wrong side of Thicknesse or Voldemort for something, though why anyone was bothering to actually put them on trial was beyond Hermione. Didn't everyone on the wrong side of the Death Eaters - especially former honorary members - immediately meet their end at the point of a Death Eater wand? So why the trial? The most Hermione could come up with was that they were too-high ranking of political figures for the general wizarding world to just accept their sudden disappearances or deaths. At least, Umbridge was. Dawlish…she had no idea how he was mixed up in this.

One thing was for sure, this trial had nothing to do with Harry and Ron or anyone Order-related. There would be no prison break today. So there was nothing left for Zabini and Hermione to do except continue to act the part and wait for the trial to adjourn so they could return to headquarters. Zabini sat stiffly beside her, silent, large, and intimidating. Hermione decided that while she was here, she might as play her part to the fullest, and so she did. For the next two hours her quill waxed eloquently about the drama, suspense, and tragedy of two trusted Ministry officials gone corrupt. She got carried away trying to channel Rita Skeeter, even speculating on the romantic ties that may have drawn the two into working with one another. Halfway through the trial she caught Zabini reading over her shoulder and smirking. Oh, so he must appreciate her latest gem: _"Ms Umbridge and Mr Dawlish exchanged twin looks of anguished communion as they stood before the judge and awaited the verdict. We can only wonder whether, as they faced life or death, they considered their thrilling, clandestine partnership worth the consequences. The handsomely broad-shouldered Mr Dawlish seemed resigned, but Ms Umbridge was definitely conflicted as she wailed and poured forth salty tears of regret by the bucket load."_ Take that, Ms Skeeter!

Finally, it was over. Verdict: guilty, punishable by execution. Hermione's imaginative writing had flagged by the end. She refused to feel sorry for the pair, but it was hard to bear witness to anyone's final moments. She hardened her heart as they were led away. Zabini snapped a few pictures, and then it was time to leave. Hermione and Zabini entered the queue to reclaim the wands that security had confiscated from them earlier. Of course, unbeknownst to security, neither of them had surrendered their own wands. There was no way Hermione would have walked around the Ministry without her wand, and she wouldn't have left her own wand in the hands of security anyway. They might check it and see all the uses to which it had been put. No, Hermione's wand was safely hidden on her person, as Zabini's was hidden on his. Security had been given decoy wands the Order had collected from one place or another.

As Hermione and Zabini waited in the queue, Hermione felt her left hand being nudged. That was odd. Zabini was on her right, and there was no one on her left. She looked down and saw nothing, but at the same moment felt her hand being poked again. She stared blankly at her hand while it sustained a few more pokes. Then she discreetly rotated her hand to face her palm forward. The next time whatever it was poked her, it nudged the palm of her hand. She quickly closed her fist and a tiny light purple paper aeroplane materialised in her hand. She turned and coughed into her right hand, the action leading her to stand behind Zabini's hulking frame. Hermione opened her hand slightly to examine the aeroplane. "From Royal" was inscribed on one of its wings. Hermione felt confused. Why was Kingsley Shacklebolt suddenly contacting her inside the Ministry? Wasn't he supposed to be away on a mission? He hadn't been at the meeting last night. How did he know they were here? And where could she read his message without attracting attention?

With sudden decision, she slipped the aeroplane inside her portfolio, stepped out from behind Zabini, and looked up at him. "I need to go to the ladies' room," she announced. "I need someone to protect me in these halls. You never know what might happen - all these Aurors and prisoners crawling around. Come on, you can wait for me in the hall." She took his arm and began to try to drag him forward with it. Hermione found that this wasn't quite an easy thing to do, as Zabini refused to budge for a moment, causing her to nearly trip over her impractical heels. Then he reached out, caught her upper arm, and steadied her before allowing himself to be led away.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?" demanded a security guard down the hallway.

"I need to visit the ladies' room," Hermione genially explained. "Would you kindly direct me?"

"Well…" he considered and looked at Zabini. "Does he need to go to the loo, too?"

"Oh no," said Hermione, before Zabini could say anything. "I just wanted the company. You know how girls are, never wanting to walk to the loo by themselves. He's going to wait for me in the hall."

"All right," said the wizard. "It's down the hall to the left."

Hermione thanked him before she and Zabini continued on. When they reached the bathrooms, Hermione took Zabini by the shoulders and settled him against the wall. "There, wait right there for me," she said in a normally pitched voice, just in case anyone was listening. Then she quickly whispered near his ear, "It's important. A message." He gave one curt nod. She ducked into the bathroom and locked herself into the last stall. Removing the aeroplane from the portfolio, she carefully smoothed it out. It read:

_Stammer should see the men's room. The bum fodder in the last stall is particularly worth the trip. _

Hermione suddenly felt very tired. It had been a long day. They had been up nearly all night trying to figure out how to respond to Percy's news and had only gotten a few hours of sleep once they had apparated to the hotel. Then they had infiltrated the Ministry, and she had been anxiety-ridden the entire time fearing they would be discovered and she would end up in Azkaban - or worse. And just when she had thought she was nearing the end (they had been in the queue to leave, for Merlin's sake!), now they apparently had more to do.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stepped out of the bathroom. Zabini hadn't moved from his spot. Well, that was something to be thankful for. She walked up very close to him, completely encroaching on his personal space. "Hi," she bubbled. "Did I miss anything?" She reached across with her right hand and briefly squeezed his left. As her hand left his, his fingers curled into a fist. She stepped to his left side to shield him with her body from the view of the main hall while he looked down briefly at Shacklebolt's note, which she had left in his palm. Zabini looked up again and said casually, "I think I need to see a man about a dog." Then he went into the men's bathroom, leaving her alone in the hall.

After Hermione recovered from her astonishment at learning that Zabini was even aware of that particular piece of vernacular (let alone knew how to use it), she spent some minutes in the hall wondering what in the world was going on. What did Mr Shacklebolt want Zabini to see in the men's bathroom, and why were they risking blowing their cover for it? Any minute now someone was going to come looking for the _Prophet _reporters who still hadn't reclaimed their wands and left the building. Finally Zabini cracked the bathroom door open and looked up and down the hall before making eye contact with her and jerking his head back toward the inside of the bathroom. Oh, no. She was _not _going in there with him. She glared at him. He glared back. Afraid that someone might pass by and see this exchange, Hermione crossed the distance between them and stopped outside the door, intending to ask him what he wanted. Instead, Zabini grabbed her by the arm and hauled her forcibly into the bathroom before she could say anything. This was not something Hermione was very happy about. She did not want to be alone in a bathroom with Zabini, even if it was on Order business. Nobody had better hear about this.

"What?" she demanded irritably.

"I thought you'd want to see this," he said, releasing her arm and going to the back stall.

She followed him with cautious interest. They both stepped into the stall, and Zabini locked the door behind them. This caused her comfort level to plummet even further. "Stand behind the toilet," he ordered. "That way no one will notice your heels if they come in." Hermione complied and watched as Zabini took the toilet paper roll out of its holder, pushed the cardboard roll out, and held open the roll between them. A note and a list of spells were written on the roll with Mr Shacklebolt's handwriting, accompanied by a hand-drawn map. The message read:

_I have just received notice that certain Unspeakables have succeeded in brewing a large batch of _Obsequium _intended for use on the Muggle population. The Auror Office is intending to utilise it to press certain talented Muggles into lifetimes of brainwashed service. If the potion were disposed of, it could not be replicated for another five years. I would sort this myself, but another assignment will have forced me to be gone by the time you get this. Innocent would not be able to do this job alone, and Tree is gone. You two alone can handle this. All Aurors will be out of the Office in a meeting at 1100 hours, which will break for lunch at 1200 hours. The sequence for the vault is the list of spells below. Be careful to aim at the centre of the locking pad. __Use the fireplace to get out. __I trust you know what to do. Its label should read 38C48.N03 X. - R_

The map showed the Office of Aurors and highlighted the vault.

As she read, Hermione considered. They had an hour to break in and out of the Office of Aurors. And not just that, but they also had to break into the Aurors' vault and steal something. Not to mention that once (if) they did all that successfully, they still had to safely get out of the Ministry. Which would be hard to do by that time, considering security wasn't likely to buy the excuse that they had both been in the bathroom for an hour and fifteen minutes. But on the other hand, if they did all that successfully, they would be saving a lot of Muggles from taking a potion that make them mindless serving machines for the Ministry doing who-knew-what. Maybe mining for precious minerals or being experimented on or something worse. Surely saving them would be worth it? And anyway, it could be a lot worse. She recalled her experience in the Ministry of Magic during her fifth year with a shudder. "Well, at least it's not in the Department of Mysteries," expressed Hermione aloud. Zabini said nothing. Hermione looked over at him. He looked put out. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Royal's lost it," he said, sounding annoyed. "Every single one of those Aurors has orders to apprehend you, and probably me, on sight, and he just expects us to walk into a room full of them and say, 'Hello fellows, we're hear to relieve you of your precious potion so we can save a bunch of Muggles'? Do you think that's going to end well? Because, believe me, it won't."

"He wouldn't ask us to do it if he didn't think we could," said Hermione.

"Look," said Zabini. "I don't answer to Royal. I answer to the organisation, and the organisation says to weigh the risks against the benefits. I just don't think the benefits outweigh the risks. If everything goes well, a couple of Muggles have nicer lives. If something goes badly, which is highly probable, you and I end up going mental in Azkaban or in cinders on the floor."

"Royal thinks we can do it," insisted Hermione. "It's not like we're going to the Department of Mysteries. And _people's lives _are worth it to me." She didn't like his insistence on referring to them as Muggles and not people. She was beginning to remember what a dedicated pureblood he had been at Hogwarts.

"It's not like they're going to die," Zabini pointed out. "They're just going to be under the influence of a submission potion for awhile. If the organisation accomplishes its objective, those Muggles will be freed anyway. If you go through with this, those Muggles will be the last people you ever help. By walking away now, you have the opportunity to ultimately help not only them, but the entire wizarding world."

The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck prickled as she watched Zabini calmly discuss resigning innocent people to mindless slavery. He was so heartless, so calculating. What he said made sense if you were divorced from compassion. But she wasn't. Those people hadn't done anything to get drawn into this, and she was not going to let this happen to them if she could help it. "Look," she said, "you can convince yourself of anything if you want, but that doesn't change the fact that the right thing to do is to help them now, today, this minute." She added the extra synonyms because she could see him opening his mouth to continue his previous argument that she would be helping them by walking away.

"Well, I'm not a fool," said Zabini coolly. "I'm not going."

Hermione felt very frustrated. She didn't think she could break in and out of the Office of Aurors without a partner's help. She wondered whether the humiliation of pleading with him would be worth it and finally swallowed her pride. "Trowbridge," she began, using his fake last name because she wanted to address him personally but couldn't break his cover even in the bathroom, "I can't do this without you." She gulped, hating the taste of such an admission to him of all people. "Please reconsider. Think of all the hardship you'd be sparing these people."

"Touching, Watson, but no." He looked across the toilet at her, staring her down, looking so serious and determined that she became a little afraid of him.

Keeping her eyes on Zabini, Hermione gathered up all her resolve and stepped out from behind the toilet. "Well, I'm going anyway. You can wait here if you'd like. Or maybe you just want to hightail it all the way back to headquarters? Your bum will be safe enough there."

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that," said Zabini, as he suddenly made the move she had been dreading but not really believed he would stoop to. He tugged up his pant leg to reveal his wand strapped against his leg and yanked it down from its place. But she was prepared. At nearly the same time, she pulled up her skirt, flashing him a great deal of leg in the process, and wrenched her own wand from its bindings on her thigh. They straightened with their wands trained on one another.

"Have you gone mental?" demanded Hermione.

"I am completely serious," said Zabini. "You're too valuable of an asset to the organisation to let you throw yourself away, not to mention that if the Ministry tortures you they'll find out everything there is to know about the organisation."

"Do you really think I would just break and tell them everything? I'd die first! And I am most definitely going. You can't stop me; I could blast you to tomorrow," threatened Hermione.

Zabini looked unimpressed. "I think you've forgotten who you're dealing with. I'm not one of your usual peers. You're evenly matched here. I can do anything you can."

Hermione hesitated in indecision. All right, so it was easy to forget that Zabini had been in the Slug Club and that Lupin thought that he was an impressive duellist. But it wasn't just those recollections that made her feel intimidated. It was the supreme confidence in his look that said he absolutely knew he could match her spell for spell, hex for hex, and would do so if he felt it necessary. But she was Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, brightest witch of her age, and she knew what she had to do. She didn't wait any longer to send a nonverbal disarming charm at him. A fraction of a second after the charm departed her wand, Zabini fired something nonverbal at her. She just barely combated it, but the force of it threw her backward against the bathroom wall. Zabini countered her charm and instantly followed up with another spell. Hermione recovered just in time to counter it and repeat her disarming charm. Zabini dodged her charm easily and sent another spell shooting toward her. Feeling the pressing need of time, Hermione decided to take a chance to try and end it all. This time, she cast the disarming charm first before following it up nearly instantaneously with a counter for Zabini's spell. Her gamble paid off. Zabini was caught off guard, and his wand flew out of his hand. He then made a rush at her, apparently intending to physically disarm her, but she made use of the three seconds he took to cross the space between them by sending a full body-bind curse at him. It hit him just as he reached her, and he froze as he reached out to knock her wand out of her hand. The momentum Zabini had sustained from running forced him to topple forward onto her. She tried to catch him and ease his fall to the floor, but he was too heavy for her. He hit the ground forcefully, taking her with him. With difficulty, she managed to shove him off, roll him onto his back, and push him against the wall.

Zabini glared at her from his body-bind. She straightened and looked down at him, considering what to do with him. She felt a surge of pride at having won the duel. "Apparently we're not as evenly matched as you thought," she told him smugly. It was childish, she knew, but it felt good to say. She retrieved the toilet paper roll and studied it for a moment before slipping it inside her skirt. She placed her portfolio next to Zabini and kicked his wand over to him, leaving it by his side. It felt more ethical than taking his wand and leaving him unarmed in a Ministry bathroom. "I'll come back and get you," she promised, before casting a disillusionment charm on him, his wand, and her portfolio. All three faded into the tile floor. Before she left, she locked the stall door with a colloportus spell for good measure.

* * *

A/N: Title chapter is from the same-titled song sung by Sammy Davis, Jr.

I am working on this story to practise my writing, so I would greatly appreciate any constructive criticism you have to offer. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	4. Do It Yourself

Standing alone inside the vault in the Office of Aurors, Hermione knew this was perhaps the most vulnerable she had ever been. She was in the heart of the territory of her enemies, inside a room that could easily turn into a death trap at the slightest twist of chance. And thanks to that git Zabini, there was absolutely no one to rely on to help her. No one to stand at the door and watch so she could safely turn her back to examine the bottles. No one to partner with if things came to a duel. She had only her own wit and skill to rely on, and she wasn't anxious to know how that measured up against the expertise of the highest calibre of wizards and witches in the Auror Department.

Everything had been fairly straightforward until now. The Office had been deserted, and she had directed the spells on Mr Shacklebolt's list at the vault locking pad in the correct order without incident. The spells had been difficult, but she was familiar with them. The vault door had slid open to allow her to enter a dark room lined with shelves and cabinets filled to the brim with bottles, files, Auror gear, and various odds and ends. Once inside, she was in completely blind position. The narrow vault door did not allow her any view of the entrance to the Office, not that she could have kept an eye on it anyway. She was too busy looking for 38C48.N03 X, which she could not find for the life of her. Of all things, this part should have been the least complicated. After all, the bottle was supposed to have a _label._ That should make it easy to locate, right? Apparently not, and she was starting to feel frantic with anxiousness at the time it was taking to find the thing.

There was stuff everywhere, spilling off shelves and piled in corners. Everything was labelled, but nothing seemed to be organised. Or if it were, Hermione couldn't make out the order. And it was exasperating, really, to have gotten this far and be thwarted because she couldn't find a simple label that read 38C48.N03 X. Time was ticking relentlessly by, leaving her a smaller and smaller margin in which to make a safe exit.

"Well, this is interesting," broke in a voice behind her, causing her to jump in alarm. She whirled around to face a man about ten years older than herself, standing alertly in the doorway with his wand trained on her. She hadn't even heard anyone enter the Office. His eyes scanned the room and, finding nothing, came back to examine her. "I'm sure you have some sort of excuse for being in an off-limits area?"

Why was he bothering to ask her that? Nothing she could say could justify her presence in the Aurors' vault. She had obviously managed to open the vault somehow, meaning that she had access to the highly classified locking pad sequence. At the very least, they would want to know how she had managed to get that. They would also want to know what she was after, and why, and they might use torture to find out… Merlin! A thought struck her suddenly. This Auror might be a Legilimens, and he was trying to distract her so he could get the truth without having to take the time to resort to torture. She shifted her gaze to his left cheekbone so she could still see his eye movement without direct eye contact. She hadn't been maintaining eye contact while she was thinking, had she? Of course she had; she had been trying to stay on guard and anticipate his next move. Had she had any explicit thoughts about the Order, members, anything? Maybe. Oh, this was bad.

"I'm…a reporter for _The Daily Prophet_," she began slowly, but gathered speed as she recalled her rehearsed persona for the day. She forced herself to think only of non-incriminating things - mental images of _The Prophet_, a quill moving across a scroll, Rita Skeeter. She couldn't quite keep her dislike for the latter from creeping into her mind at her memory, however. She was gripping her wand tightly behind her back. An obvious position, she knew, but she could do no better. "I know I'm snooping. I was looking for a good story and I couldn't resist. You'll have to forgive me. I meant no harm. You'd do the same thing if you were a reporter. A nose for news, you know!"

"No doubt," said the Auror, moving agilely into the room. He made no noise when he moved. "Looking for anything in particular?"

"No, not really," lied Hermione, shaking her head innocently. "Just anything interesting, you know. But this room is terribly messy. I don't know how you Aurors find anything in all this junk. I'm afraid the only story I've been able to find is that the security of the wizarding world rests in the hands of a lot of hoarders."

His lips contracted into the thin line of a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So you're a reporter?"

"Yes." _We just covered this, wanker._

"Reporters have contacts, don't they? Do you have any contacts in the Ministry?"

She smiled shakily. "I wish I did. Then they could do my snooping for me, couldn't they?"

"Or you could do their snooping for them?"

She forced herself to stay still, though her nerves were taut. "I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about."

"For a reporter, you're awfully shy. Why don't you look at me? Afraid?" Why wouldn't he just get to the point and stop playing cat and mouse with her? She set her jaw. When she didn't answer, he began speaking in a quieter voice. "Did you know that there are only about fifteen people who have access to the sequence for this locking pad? Now how would someone like you get her filthy little hands on that, hmm? Your contact must be very high up."

She was not going to think of her contact. She could not, she would not. She blocked him out of her mind with all her might. "I told you, I don't have a contact. I work alone."

"Look, why don't we do this the easy way?" the Auror offered. "You tell me; I get you a deal; you do your time and live as a free woman after you hit middle age. Simple and pain-free. Or we can resort to the unpleasant business of torture, life imprisonment, death…" He trailed off and narrowed his eyes at her. "Either way, we're still going to find out. It's up to you."

Hermione decided she was not benefiting by prolonging this conversation. She brought her wand out from behind her back, intending to give him the strongest hex she could think of, but he anticipated her move and wordlessly blasted her wand out of her hand. It went flying into a pile of rocks on a counter to her right. A surge of panic flooded her body. She tensed, crouching down into a fight-or-flight position, though what was left of her logic screamed at her that it was useless.

She made a fatal mistake then. She looked her enemy full-on to see when his next strike would come. His eyes were so intense that they pulled her in. There was such power there, and she was so terrified. And his eyes said _tell me, tell me, I will know everything. _They were approaching a cliff together and he was going to kindly push her over the edge. But there was a split second pause at the edge, and in that moment she reached into the deepest part of her being for every vestige of strength and fought him for herself. She came clawing to reality with a gasp, reached out and seized something her hand fell on, and hurled it across the room at him. As her eyes refocused she saw she had thrown a large glass bottle. He guided it with a flick of his wand to a gentle landing on a shelf.

Then the Auror's gaze turned to Hermione, and she saw that he was angry. She knew that she was defeated and the next moment would spell her doom. This wasn't how her end was supposed to come. She was supposed to be with friends, backing one another up . And they all would have died for each other until the last person left stood in the midst of their bodies and used every last drop of lifeblood to inflict damage on the enemy before falling to join them in death. She had never thought it would end like this, alone in the Ministry of Magic. She had never even found out what happened to Ron and Harry.

She saw the spell depart from his wand. As soon as it hit her, she fell to the floor in agonising pain and wished that it had been the Killing Curse. She had never felt pain like this before. Every nerve in her body was being cut into a thousand tiny little pieces with sharp razors and then set on fire. Inside she was screaming, _Please, please, no!_ But no sound came out of her mouth. She wouldn't give the Auror the satisfaction. She dimly remembered telling Zabini she wouldn't break, and she meant it even now. She savagely bit down on her tongue to keep from crying out.

But the torture suddenly ceased as quickly as it had begun. Her entire world was composed of her frayed nerve endings crackling in her skin. She lay very still, afraid to move, dreading the moment the torture would start again. Gradually she became aware that someone was speaking, as if from a great distance away. Oh, let it not be another Auror. One was enough.

"Watson! Watson… Granger! Hermione!" She began to feel as if someone were pouring cooling ointment on her head. It felt wondrously good, erasing the pain there. The feeling spread down, down to her stomach and stopped. She moaned and opened her eyes. Zabini was kneeling beside her, pointing his wand at her. She instinctively flinched away from him in suspicion. The motion made her nearly cry out in pain.

"Hold still, Hermione; I'm trying to help you!" Zabini hissed. He murmured something under his breath, and the beautiful cooling feeling started again and spread all the way down to her toes. The pain was gone. Hermione gently flexed her fingers and toes. There were no corresponding twinges. Suddenly she became aware of a great deal of warm wetness in her mouth. She gingerly pulled herself up into a half-sitting position and spat on the floor. Blood.

"Here, let me see," said Zabini, reaching for her face. She turned her head away quickly. He put his hand down and sighed in exasperation. "Look, Hermione, I'm trying to _help _you. I'm not here to continue our previous argument. We're here now, so let's just heal you, get the potion, and get out of here. We're wasting time."

She scanned the room distrustfully until her eyes fell on the Auror in a heap on the floor near the doorway. Zabini followed her gaze. "He's going to be knocked out for a good while, and I put the body-bind on him, too," he said reassuringly. She looked at Zabini uncertainly. "Hermione," he said, "I'm going to help you. Trust me." She considered for a moment, and then responded by opening her mouth and allowing him to look inside. She couldn't talk. Her tongue felt like she had bitten clean through it. "It's your tongue," he said. "Can you stick it out a bit so I can get a better angle to heal it?" She complied. He looked at it closely. "Yeah, you must have bitten it pretty hard." He paused to point his wand at it. "_Episkey._" She felt her tongue knitting itself back together. It itched for a moment, then felt normal. Zabini continued, "You didn't make a sound when he was cursing you. I thought you might want to know." He paused again and analysed her. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"I don't think so," she said slowly. Now that the encounter was over, she wanted to cry, but she didn't dare do that in front of Zabini. Instead, she exhaled shakily and rubbed her eyes.

"It's all right, Hermione," Zabini said, almost kindly. "It's over now."

It began to dawn on her how deeply indebted she was to Zabini. She sought out his eyes and bit her lip. "_Thank you_," she whispered.

His brown eyes returned her gaze seriously. "You're welcome."

As her brain settled back into reality, she became confused. "How did you get out of the bathroom?" The last time she had seen him, he had been in a body-bind.

He smirked and retreated for a moment into his familiar, aloof self. "I have my secrets," he answered. She was going to have to get to the bottom of that someday, but now she didn't have the energy or time. He straightened and held out his hand to her. "Do you think you can stand up?" She nodded and took his hand. He pulled her up to a standing position, and a wave of dizziness hit her. Zabini steadied her while she reached out for the nearest counter. She placed her hands on it, held herself up, and kept her head down. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, just give me a minute. See if you can't find that blasted bottle." She shifted her weight to one hand and used the other to take Mr Shacklebolt's note from her skirt and pass it to him. He accepted it, but took a few moments to clean up the mess she had made on the floor. She closed her eyes, willing the dizziness away. Across the room, she heard Zabini rummaging through the shelves. Suddenly there was the sound of breaking pottery. Zabini swore. "What happened?" Hermione asked, opening her eyes and turning her head toward him.

"This rotting jar fell and broke on my hand," he said. "What _is _this? It smells terrible." He picked up a shard and read the remaining label. "'_Resolutio Interiora'_? What's that supposed to mean?"

"That sounds familiar," said Hermione faintly. If only her head would clear up!

"_Interiora _means entrails in Italian," muttered Zabini as he repaired the jar, replaced it on the shelf, and dispelled the spilt potion. "Merlin, I hate this place."

Hermione finally felt well enough to stand up and move around. The first thing she did was retrieve her wand from the rock collection. Feeling more secure with it in her hand, she proceeded to rifle through cabinets. She was interrupted some time later by Zabini swearing again.

"What is it?" she asked. He was two shelves down from her and looked like he was going to gag.

"I just imbibed _Resolutio Interiora_."

The rueful smirk in the corner of his mouth made her wonder if this was some sorry joke. "No, you didn't," she retorted.

He held up his finger. "No, I really did. I got a paper cut and sucked on it, but I hadn't cleaned my hands yet. That stuff tastes sodding awful."

She felt the accumulation of the day's anxiety welling up in her and threatening to explode. "Great!" she said tightly. "We don't even know what the potion is and now you're going to be under its influence!"

"It's not like it was that much. Let's just hurry up and get out of here."

They both returned to the search. Just when Hermione began to believe they would never find 38C48.N03 X, she came across it on the back of a shelf in a cabinet. "Great," said Zabini, "now I just need to obliviate that Auror, and we can get out of here."

"I want to obliviate him myself," said Hermione determinedly.

Zabini looked appraisingly at her. "All right, if you're sure you're up to it," he said.

Hermione crossed the room and looked down at the Auror. She felt an intense surge of dislike for this man. She was afraid that he had learned too much from her during their brief interaction, and she didn't want him to use that information to find her friends. Being a little less precise than she could have been, she performed the obliviation spell. She felt it wouldn't be a loss if the Auror came out of this with a slightly lower IQ. Zabini roughly dragged him outside of the vault and practically threw him down next to a desk. Hermione felt that was a bit violent, but she wasn't about to naysay it. Zabini finished by erasing the Auror's wand's history before dropping it beside him.

Hermione surveyed the inside of the vault one last time. Zabini had done a good job cleaning up. She would not have known anything out of the ordinary had just happened inside. When she stepped outside of the vault, its door slid closed behind her. She used her wand to shrink the Obsequium potion, bedazzled it, and then dropped it inside her portfolio (which Zabini had brought with him when he had mysteriously escaped the bathroom). She would safely destroy the potion once they were out of the Ministry, when she had the time to do it right.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is named after the same-titled song sung by Dean Martin.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing! Your reviews bring happiness into my day!


	5. Something's Gotta Give

Having successfully raided the vault in the Office of Aurors, all that remained for Hermione and Zabini to do was make a safe escape. They were hoping to accomplish this by using the fireplace located in the middle of the Office's large expanse. Hermione thought it made sense that the Aurors had their own exit from the Ministry, though she hadn't thought of it until she read Mr Shacklebolt's note. She was thankful she and Zabini didn't have to try to sneak their way up to the Atrium. Using the fireplaces there would be impossible now that they had been missing for so long. Even now, Hermione's nerves were on edge as she crossed the room. Any minute now, someone would be coming, and there was no explaining their presence here. A paper wafted off a desk on the side of the room, causing Hermione's heart to skip a beat and then flop about like a fish on dry ground. But somehow, no one came in, and they made it across the room.

"You first," said Zabini, gesturing to the fireplace, and today she was in no mood to argue. She stepped in, whooshed upward, and found herself standing in a toilet facing a brown-haired wizard. Behind him stood another wizard and a witch. Panic seized Hermione and her breath hitched in her throat. Before she had time to orient herself, the first wizard had whipped out his wand and wordlessly sent Hermione's own skittering across the tile floor. The impact of the spell caused Hermione to fall out of the toilet, where she sprawled ungracefully on the floor.

"Get up," commanded the wizard tensely, training his wand on her. To the other two, he said, "Either of you know who this is?"

"No," they both answered, and the witch elaborated, "No one's scheduled to go out until 1500 hours." Hermione pulled herself up from the floor, careful not to make any sudden moves. Her heart felt like it was trying to escape the confines of her ribcage.

"That's what I thought," the first wizard answered gravely. "It looks like we have an intruder on our hands." He turned to Hermione and opened his mouth to address her, but was interrupted by a steadily growing whooshing sound. "Quick! There's another one coming!" he urged, as he shoved Hermione across the room. Her heels skidded across the tile floor and she would have fallen again if the other wizard hadn't caught her by the arm in a vicelike grip. Behind her, Hermione felt the witch press the point of a wand into her back.

Zabini appeared in the toilet and had his wand blasted out of his hands before he even had the chance to realise there were others in the room. He took it all in stride, hopping nimbly out of the toilet in response to the wizard's orders. But his compliance ended there. Without breaking stride, he quickly crossed the small space between himself and the wizard and launched himself viciously at the man. The wizard was caught off-guard, and his nonverbal spell grazed Zabini without effect before colliding into the wall beyond. "_Hai scelto l'uomo sbagliato di immischiarsi con oggi_!" snarled Zabini ferociously, as the two struggled for control of the wand and wild spells shot out errantly from between them. "Stun him!" the witch was screeching at the second wizard, who had dropped Hermione's arm in the confusion and was shouting, "I can't; I might hit Orion!"

And suddenly Hermione made her decision as adrenaline welled up and possessed her in a flood. She elbowed the witch behind her as hard as she could, while at the same time pulling her body to the side out of the direct range of her wand. The witch misfired a nonverbal spell, and the wizard across the room swore simultaneously. Hermione whirled around and used her right elbow to connect with the witch's face as one would do with a backhand. Then she backhanded her as hard as she could with her left hand while simultaneously using the other to knock the witch's wand to the ground. As the witch reeled backward, Hermione kept her fists up and thanked her stars for the kickboxing cousins she had grown up with. She paid dearly for this moment of reflection, because she received an uppercut to her unprotected stomach before the witch had even managed to completely upright herself. Hermione gasped in pain and doubled over, unwittingly giving the witch a clear shot at her head. She felt the witch's fist connect with the side of her skull and reeled back. But she had learned her lesson and didn't wait to recover. She blindly flung her right hand out in a backhand that luckily connected with the witch's face. As she straightened, she saw the witch hurtling toward her again.

In the split second she had to prepare herself for the impact of the witch's fists, Hermione decided she had had enough. She had grown up in the Muggle world with kickboxing cousins, for Merlin's sake! She should know how to fight without a wand. Her body pulsing with energy, she backed away and kicked her heels off her feet to the side. Fists up, she executed a roundhouse kick that wasn't quite as successful as she'd hoped. Though her skirt split, it still constricted her range. The ball of her foot connected with the witch's diaphragm, knocking the wind out of the witch and pushing her backward. As Hermione's weight came down on her right foot, she followed up by giving a side kick with her left leg. The greater mobility from the split in her skirt made this kick more efficient. The witch staggered back, and Hermione moved in to put an end to a fight that had already lasted too long. She landed several quick, open-palmed jabs at the witch's face and a wide-swinging side punch to the left side of her head. The witch fell in an unconscious heap to the floor, a testament to the strength of Hermione's adrenaline.

With the threat of the witch neutralised, Hermione glanced wonderingly toward the spot where the other wizard had been standing. Why hadn't he attacked her before now? To her amazement, he appeared to be out cold on the floor. In confusion, she turned to look behind her and found Zabini standing there staring at her, a wand in his hand and the first wizard slumped on the floor behind him. Oh, so it was all over. She suddenly realised her whole body was still tensed for another attack and forced herself to take a deep breath. Her blood was buzzing in her brain from the adrenaline rush of the confrontation, and her breath came in quick, ragged gasps. Zabini was apparently doing little better; he was panting and wiping blood off his cheek. She gave him a quick visual inspection to make sure he wasn't going to bleed to death on her watch. He seemed all right, except he was looking at her with that strange expression from this morning. Well, it wasn't exactly like this morning - it was far less confused and there was something like admiration and pride mixed in. His face was more open than she had ever seen it in her life. She could have read many secrets there if she had the time, but she was desperate to get as far away from the Ministry as possible before anyone else walked in. Besides, something about him was making her uncomfortable.

While Hermione slipped back into her heels, she remembered that she didn't have her wand. She began looking around frantically, jabbering in an effort to release her tension. "Where is my wand? Merlin! That was a close one. Almost too close. I swear, we're going to be lucky if we make it back in one piece…" As she located her wand on the floor, it occurred to her that obliviation of these three may be superfluous. All they had seen was a rogue reporter and cameraman who happened to be rather efficient fighters. (That _was _what had happened with Zabini, wasn't it?) The Polyjuice negated the possibility of their being identified. She picked up her wand, straightened, and noticed that Zabini hadn't moved a centimetre. She looked back at him. His face and stance hadn't changed one bit. "Zabini, are you going to just stand there or are you going to help me out here?" she snapped. "I know we just did a brilliant job - we deserve at least a week's rest for that - but we can't stop yet, and if you decide now is the time to lay around on the job I warn you I am going to forget the past hour and hex you into tomorrow -"

"Hermione Granger, _sei una donna che supera tutti gli altri_," he interrupted huskily, stepping toward her.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she noted the storminess in his eyes and stepped backward. She recognised a few of his words as similar to Latin, but they made no sense to her. "Trowbridge," she said carefully as he strode across the room. She was surprised to hear how small her own voice sounded. "Trowbridge, we still have work to do."

She was looking closely at him and noticed he appeared to be getting darker. As a shock of frizzy brown hair fell into her eyes, she abruptly knew what had happened. In the midst of all the action and confusion of the past hour, neither of them had taken their Polyjuice Potion. A clattering outside the bathroom door broke into the silence and made up Hermione's mind regarding her next step. In a matter of seconds, the door would open and they would be discovered yet again - but without their Polyjuice disguises. That had to be avoided at all costs. As Zabini reached her and took her by the arms, she shut her eyes and tried to think of somewhere remote and non-incriminating as a half-way point to disapparate to. An image of a stone ruin surfaced in her mind and she seized upon it. "Hang on; we're going to disapparate," she warned Zabini, opening her eyes and finding with surprise that his face was rather near her own. His skin had almost completely returned to its normal dark colour now. She reached out and grasped him by the arms, shutting her eyes again and side-along disapparating in relief from the horrid Ministry.

* * *

They apparated to the Forest of Dean, into a small clearing deep in the heart of the woods just big enough to hold an old stone building. The structure was ancient, probably built as a Saxon noble's summer home in the 1000's. Dedalus Diggle had discovered the building in his childhood and had suggested it when the Order had scrambled for safe houses after Dumbledore's death. Now charmed to be invisible to all except members of the Order, it was one of the few uncompromised safety points they had left. As such, Hermione knew it was a safe place to rest, treat their wounds, and destroy the Obsequium potion. She didn't want to bring anything to the Burrow that might be used to compromise the Order or frame the Weasleys. Besides, this was one of her favourite safe houses to visit. In the back of the building, there was a small enclave where she liked to sit under an empty window arch that looked out on a glorious beech tree. Shafts of light would filter through the beech leaves and play in golds and reds on the stone floor while she tried to puzzle out the latest problem presented to Harry or the Order. It had been this enclave, in fact, which had popped into her head when she had tried to think of somewhere to apparate to, and they were now standing just outside it, the stone window arch behind them and the beech just beyond.

They had apparated holding one another by the arms, but the slight impact of their landing made them stumble apart. Noting with frustration that she had sent them to the back of the building in her haste to depart the Ministry, Hermione began to step around Zabini and stride purposefully toward the entryway. The greater mobility suddenly allowed by her skirt made her look down and see that the skirt's seam had split nearly to her hip. In embarrassment, she turned away from Zabini and repaired the seam with magic.

"Hermione." Zabini's calm voice, saying only her first name of all things, stopped her mid-thought. She straightened and began to turn toward him, only to find herself being helped in her intention by his deliberate hand on her arm. She was going to let that go without comment (after all, they had been through a lot today), when he went beyond any of her intentions and all that was appropriate by pulling her across the short distance between them. And before she knew what was happening, Blaise Zabini was kissing her firmly on the mouth.

Hermione was so stunned she didn't do anything. Her brain just stopped, unable to handle the massive non sequitur that was Zabini kissing her under a window arch in the Forest of Dean. At this proximity, she could smell his sweat and the blood drying on his eyebrow, with just a whiff of the scent of the sea and musty old books about him. His hand on her arm was purposeful; his kiss determined but not harsh. But she didn't notice these things until later, when she could think again. All she noticed now was that he was incredibly warm, uncomfortably so, and his warmth flooded her until she was overwhelmed with the heat. And his same intensity that had somehow turned off her reactions suddenly restored them. She came to herself and pushed him roughly away. He didn't try to fight her. He stumbled backwards over the uneven forest floor and reeled, gasping, watching her with that dazed look again, only it was different.

She was shaking. She backed away from him, until her back was almost touching the stone wall of the building. "What in the name of Merlin's beard is wrong with you, Zabini?" she demanded, half-screaming and feeling not at all in control of the situation.

He was looking at her like he was drowning underwater and trying desperately, hopelessly to fight his way back to the surface. At the last moment she realised the difference in his look was alarm. Zabini was alarmed. Wasn't that her prerogative, not his? "Hermione," he began breathlessly, and continued all in a rush, "_Non posso smettere di pensare a te. Sei diversi e testardo e mi fanno impazzire, ma ti voglio. Sto cominciando a pensare che tu sei tutto ci__ò__ che ho sempre voluto…_"

He continued in an outpouring of Italian that she couldn't begin to follow. She had no idea what his problem was. She thought she picked out "you", "I", "can't stop", "different", and "hate" in all that, but it had been a long day and she wasn't positive how similar Italian was to Latin anyway. "English, Zabini," she snapped. "_Anglicus!_"

He frowned in apparent deep concentration. When he finally opened his mouth, he spoke as if each word required great effort. "You are the most…exasperating person I've ever met!" He sounded angry, like she was at the root of a hideous problem. As if he had any right to be angry with her. _He _was the one going around kissing people.

"Well, I can assure you the feeling is mutual!" she shot back. "But that has absolutely nothing to do with the complete inappropriateness of kissing a mission partner, _unsolicited _at that! Listen," she continued, stomping menacingly toward him, "you can't just go around snogging me or anyone else on whatever twisted whim you have. You may be Italian, but this isn't ancient Rome. You aren't a gladiator, and you don't get a woman just because you won a fight! _Vides? _[Understand?]"

He had been watching her bemusedly until this last part, whereupon he grinned like an idiot. She had never seen him truly smile before, only smirk. His smile lit up his face, and for some reason her stomach abruptly clenched into a funny little knot. "_S__ì__, bella._"

She didn't need to be a linguist to understand that one. She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. "Now don't get cheeky with me, Zabini! I know you're a sexist git, but I deserve every ounce of respect that you would be giving Dean or Harry or anyone else! _Do not _call me beautiful!"

"Dean and Harry are nowhere near…nothing like -" he began, but she cut him off.

"Oh, just stow it! This is all a complete sidetrack from the fact that you just kissed me, unprovoked, for absolutely no reason."

"Do you need a reason?" he asked, looking down at her. His voice was thick with the Italian accent that usually only hovered at the edges of his words.

Suddenly she noticed how close she'd edged up to him. The intensity was rolling off him in waves. She began to be aware of how nervous he made her, but she wasn't about to show him that by backing up. Hermione held her ground. "Yes," she said, as calmly as she could, but her breath came with a shudder.

He just looked at her, a tempest swirling in the depths of his eyes, and she could feel her heels itching to trace their path backward, her whole being crying out for some space. Finally he said quietly, "_Forse perché ho sognato di farlo_."

Her resulting expression made him scramble backward toward the beech. "You have one more chance, Zabini, and it had better be in _English _this time."

He hunched up his shoulders and exhaled in agitation. "I think…I think I'm losing my mind."

She was about to explode at him for that sorry excuse of an answer, but something in the way he stood there, almost forlornly, held her back. He was behaving in a decidedly un-Zabini-like manner. Through the haze of her anger, annoyance, and exhaustion, that clue finally tipped her off. _Resolutio Interiora._ That was probably what this was.

A wave of guilt hit Hermione. Zabini had ingested an unknown potion and alerted her like a responsible mission partner should. As his partner, she was supposed to keep an eye out for any resulting complications and make sure he received proper treatment. She had failed him by forgetting and not recognising the signs of his obviously affected behaviour. Here he was going mental beneath her very nose and she was getting angry with him for things he couldn't help. "Zabini," she said hurriedly. He had stepped nearer to her, concern written on his face. She touched his arm gingerly. "_Resolutio Interiora, _remember? I am so sorry! Do you think you can wait two more minutes?" He looked at her in confusion and nodded cautiously. "All right, hang in there. I just need to get rid of this first."

She hurried off and destroyed the Obsequium as quickly as she could. Using magic, she buried the remains for good measure. She felt terrible about taking the time to do all that before she could get help for Zabini, but she had no choice. She simply couldn't bring the potion to the Burrow.

"All right." She approached Zabini and held onto his arm. "Hold on. I'm taking you to the Burrow. Everything is going to be all right!" She desperately hoped so. An image flashed through her mind of Zabini locked in the mental ward at St Mungo's due to her carelessness. She forced herself to push it away and concentrated on the Weasley home instead.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is named after the same-titled song sung by Sammy Davis, Jr.


	6. Guys and Dolls

They burst through the door of the Burrow, surprising Mrs Weasley, Fred, and George, who appeared to be the only ones at home. "Oi! Hermione, where've you two been?" queried George, or maybe it was Fred, turning on the couch.

"Help me!" she cried, dragging Zabini behind her by the arm. "Zabini's ingested some potion that's making him go mental!"

With an exclamation, Mrs Weasley hurried over immediately, but the twins only perked up on the couch. "Do tell," invited the twin Hermione thought might be Fred. She didn't have time to decipher which was which.

"_Resolutio Interiora,_" explained Hermione breathlessly, as Mrs Weasley took Zabini's free arm gently. "Do any of you know what that is?" Fred and George eyed each other furtively but said nothing. "Hey!" she snapped at them. "Help me! We have to get him upstairs to bed, figure out what the scabby potion is, and find a remedy! He's acting like a nutter!"

"What exactly has he done?" she heard one of the twins say as she, Zabini, and Mrs Weasley reached the stairs. She glanced back at Fred and George still sitting on the couch. Their faces looked quite serious, an expression she wasn't used to seeing on their faces.

She faltered at the foot of the stairs, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Why?"

"What has he done?" George repeated suspiciously.

She shifted to face them fully. "You know what it is, don't you?"

"Hermione," said Fred impatiently, "we can't help you until we know what it is he's done."

Behind her, Zabini shook Mrs Weasley's hand off his arm. "_Signora, sono perfettamente in grado di camminare_," he said with frosty dignity.

Hermione waved her hand helplessly in Zabini's direction. "That! He's suddenly completely Italian! He pretty much only speaks Italian, behaves as if English is difficult for him, and he's _emotional_! He's absolutely not himself! He also acted like a total madman and brutally attacked a wizard when the wizard was holding a wand on him and he was unarmed! And he's acting like he can't think straight when you know he's usually a bright enough thinker!"

"Are you sure that's all?" George pressed. "Nothing bordering on the shady side?"

"Traitorous, perhaps?" prompted Fred.

She briefly considered telling them he had kissed her, but dismissed the idea. "No, he's proven himself several times today. He's just acting like a loony bin now!"

"I don't know, the brutal attacking part sounds pretty ace!" said Fred, as he and George visibly brightened and sauntered over.

"So what's _Resolutio Interiora_?" demanded Hermione.

"A loosing of the inner self," explained George offhandedly.

"A release of the subconscious by suppression of one's reasoning faculties, dear scholar," added Fred. "I'm surprised you didn't know that." Oh, of course. _Interioris_ meant innards, the seat of the emotions. Hadn't Zabini himself mentioned something about innards? Her not realising it before was true proof of the horrible day she was having.

"We experimented with modifying it as a product for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but the ingredients were too expensive," continued George. "Plus it's highly potent and illegal."

"Very tricky to dilute," mentioned Fred.

"Try impossible," George said to Fred. "Remember when we tried mixing it with -"

"What's the cure?" interrupted Hermione anxiously, as she pulled Zabini up the stairs. Mrs Weasley followed behind, perhaps to catch Zabini if he tripped or fainted.

"Cure? There is none," shrugged Fred.

Hermione stopped in her tracks. This was very bad. Next to her, Zabini turned to glare at the twins, who were standing right beneath them on the staircase. "_Sarebbe possibile per voi idioti per fermare inquinare l'aria_?" he inquired coldly.

George elbowed Fred. "I think he just insulted us, mate."

"Aw, come on, George, you've got to give the lad some allowances. It must be difficult to have your subconscious running your life when you've always kept such a tight lid on things. He just might be having the worst day of his life!"

"Serves him right. He's always been too uppity for -"

Hermione exploded, "What do you mean, there's no cure?"

They both looked up at her like they had forgotten she was there. "Huh?" said George. "Oh, there's no cure because it wears off on its own."

"Boys, now is not the time for your humour," reprimanded Mrs Weasley, as Hermione flushed with anger and fought the urge to wring their scrawny necks. Instead, she started dragging Zabini upstairs again.

"How long does it take?" she asked them tightly over her shoulder.

Fred shrugged again. "Depends on how much he took. How did he end up taking it, anyway?"

"It's a long story that you probably won't be hearing, since I am so upset with you," huffed Hermione.

"With me? Whatever for?" asked Fred innocently, as they reached Ginny's empty room.

"But you'll tell me, right, Hermione?" George wheedled.

"No, I'm mad at you, too!"

Suddenly Zabini lunged around. Mrs Weasley jumped out of the way, inadvertently clearing the way for Zabini to go toe-to-toe with Fred. "_Pensavo che ti ho detto di lasciarmi in pace_!" Zabini snarled.

Fred backed away a few steps, hands up. "Whoa, mate, relax. In a couple of hours, you'll get your brain back." He then addressed Hermione, but continued to watch Zabini warily. "How much did you say he took?"

"Not much," she answered, tugging on Zabini's arm. "Zabini, Zabini," she pleaded. He was locked in a stare-down with Fred, who appeared to be losing. "Blaise," she tried, and immediately felt his attention shift to her, though he kept his eyes on Fred. "Please. We'll just get you to bed and you can sleep it off. When you wake up, you'll be fine!" With a last disdainful look at Fred, Zabini turned grudgingly back to her. "Great," she said. "Now let's just go in here," she said, leading him to Ginny's room. "Is that all right, Mrs Weasley?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs Weasley answered from a safe distance. "Just make sure Ginny's breakables are put out of the way. He seems quite unpredictable."

"Yes, are you sure he proved loyal and all that today?" put in George. "I wouldn't want to worry about him trying to murder us all while we wait for that stuff to wear off."

"It's not like we all don't worry about that already," muttered Fred.

"I'll have you know he saved my life today at least once," answered Hermione defensively. She had been holding an inner debate as to whether his actions could be construed in that way. Once she vocalised it, she knew it was true. If she had been captured, she would have died under torture before revealing any information about the Order. She turned to the twins' mother. "Mrs Weasley, do you have any sleeping draughts we could use?"

"Of course. I've been using one more often now. Let me just go get it."

"No," said Hermione quickly, noticing the hostile manner in which Zabini was eying Fred. "Why don't you get it, Fred? I think it might be best if you weren't around Zabini right now."

"Really?" asked George, standing safely behind Hermione and obviously enjoying his twin's discomfort. "Because I think they're getting along just famously. After all, Zabini actually _spoke _to us. That's not something that happens everyday."

"I'll get the potion, Mum," said Fred a bit nervously, as he backed away from a bristling Zabini. "Where is it?"

"On the nightstand next to my bed, in a green bottle," she answered. "Here, Blaise," she approached Zabini cautiously, "why don't you just sit down here on the bed?" Zabini sat down stiffly, and Mrs Weasley stepped away quickly as though she were expecting him to hex her. An uneasy silence settled on the room.

"So… Did he really save your life?" George finally asked.

"Yes, he really did," she replied firmly.

As George was mulling this apparently incongruous thought over, Fred appeared in the doorway. "Catch!" he said, tossing a green bottle to Hermione.

Hermione caught it and was just turning to administer it to Zabini when he erupted with, "_Che cosa è questo, un partito?_" They all jumped in surprise. He frowned deeply and spoke with great effort. "Stop staring at me!"

"What do you know? He still speaks English!" exclaimed George.

"Fred, George, why don't you go out into the hall?" Mrs Weasley suggested.

Fred complied immediately, disappearing from the view of the doorway. George went more slowly. "Call us if the bugger gives you any trouble," he instructed as he went.

With just Mrs Weasley, herself, and Zabini in the room, Hermione turned to survey him. He seemed to have calmed down a bit and was regarding her watchfully. His strange, open look from the Forest of Dean was back in all its force, and she felt doubly uncomfortable with Mrs Weasley looking on. "Zabini," Hermione said quietly, holding out the bottle to him. She was ashamed to hear her voice shake a little. "Please take this. It will help you sleep off the potion, and everything will be back to normal when you wake up." His hand came up slowly to close around her fingers on the bottle and remain there. He made no move to take the bottle from her. "Drink it," she encouraged. He said nothing. His brown eyes were fastened on her own and seemed to be searching for something deep within her. "_Bibere_," she added in Latin, ready to try anything to get through to him. He finally took it from her fingers and lifted it to his lips, his eyes never straying from hers. Thankfully, he drained the entire thing. She took the bottle from him and handed it back to a silent Mrs Weasley.

"Now lay down so you can go to sleep," Hermione instructed soothingly. He made no move to comply, and she sighed. Once he recovered, she was going to have some very serious words with him about his complete inability to follow orders. In the meantime, she stepped forward, put her hand on his chest, and carefully pushed him back. This required her to lean over him as he reclined, and the result was a bit awkward. Her bushy hair, which seemed to have finally succeeded in its rebellion against its French twist, fell down across her face and grazed his cheek. She was refusing to look at him, but his warm breath on her cheek surprised her into meeting his eyes. He was watching her drowsily, as if from a great distance. "Hermione," he whispered quietly, "_sei meraviglioso_." His eyes abruptly closed, and his body dropped the rest of the way onto the bed. Hermione snatched her hand away and jumped back.

"Thank goodness," breathed Mrs Weasley, as the tension that had been building in the room evaporated. "That boy was behaving very strangely."

"You can say that again," called George from the hallway. "Is he out?"

"Yes," answered Mrs Weasley. Hermione began sweeping everything that looked breakable off Ginny's shelves and storing it safely in the closet. Both twins stepped back into the room.

"Whew!" said Fred in relief. "I thought we were going to have a row there, for a moment."

"Oh, come on, that's not that strange. Zabini's been brewing a row for awhile now," observed George.

"Yes, but I didn't think it would be about nothing. Hermione, what was that you said about him brutally attacking someone? I believe it, now. Remind me never to get on that lad's bad side."

"I think we already are," George interjected.

"Well, remind me to patch things up with him, then." Fred turned to Hermione as they all stepped out of the room. "What's this about him saving your life?"

"Yes, what happened today, Hermione?" asked Mrs Weasley.

They all went downstairs and sat on the couches. Mrs Weasley served some tea, which did Hermione a great deal of good. And since these three were like family to her, she took the time to tell them what had happened that day, though she desperately needed a hot shower and several days' worth of rest. But although she was very fond of them, she left some details out of her account. In the midst of her confusion about the day's events, there remained a firm conviction that some things were not hers to tell. She respected Zabini enough now to let him have his secrets, whatever they may be.

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, during which she and Zabini rested and avoided one another, Hermione Granger did something she had never done before in her life. She knowingly committed a logical fallacy. After Zabini's kiss in the Forest of Dean and the revelation that he had done so under the influence of his own subconscious, Hermione was left in a bind. First she tried researching _Resolutio Interiora_, hoping that Fred and George had gotten their information wrong. They hadn't. If anything, they had downplayed the potion's effects. There were many documented incidents of it driving people to the edge - committing murder or suicide, for instance, or going insane from facing the dark impulses buried within them. The potion granted raging mastery to the emotions and desires that people daily suppressed, and the results were usually disastrous.

Zabini had definitely been a more visibly angry and violent person while under the potion's influence. His attack on the wizard in the bathroom was a perfect example. He hadn't even stopped to think about attacking the man; he had just apparently gone with his first impulse. Hermione knew that his action was what had saved them. The wizards and witch had been caught so off-guard that Hermione had had a chance to disarm the witch who was holding her captive. Later, Zabini had been rather hostile toward Fred and George, and even a bit toward Mrs Weasley. But he had never been antagonistic toward her. He had actually been rather docile, for himself anyway - allowing her to drag him around and such. In the Forest of Dean, there had been moments when he seemed angry with her. But he had never behaved aggressively toward her. And this was puzzling, because the information on _Resolutio Interiora _convinced Hermione that if he had been truly angry with her, that emotion would have carried him away and he would have attacked her. But he never had.

She wished the puzzle ended there. She could have handled that, somehow - the fact that someone with whom she had thought she shared a mutual dislike actually felt no malice for her and maybe even was a friend. She could have learned to get over nearly seven years' worth of disdain for him. Because she obviously could trust him. If there was one valuable thing about the entire experience, it was that they had learned that Zabini could be absolutely trusted. He had had multiple chances to turn her in or harm her. If he had been double-crossing them, harbouring traitorous inclinations, or even just been a selfish git who wanted to save his own skin, those feelings would have surfaced and he would have acted on them. As a best friend to the Chosen One, Hermione would make a valuable tool to the Death Eaters - both as a source of information through torture and as bait for a trap for Harry. But Zabini hadn't once shown any inclination to take advantage of his partnership with her. He had continued with the mission and even protected her. She remembered finding the wizard behind her knocked out and turning to see Zabini with a wand in his hand. The wizard could only have been knocked out from Zabini's intervention. So yes, Zabini was a trustworthy, dedicated member of the Order, something she would vouch for with her life. If that were all, she would have been glad.

But of course, there was more. He had exhibited much more than just amicable feelings or even friendship toward her. He had kissed her and spoken passionately to her in Italian. And he had done it all under the influence of emotions that he daily pushed to the bottom of his mind.

But it simply wasn't possible for Blaise Zabini to have feelings for her. She was a Muggle-born, and he had always been a dedicated pureblood. They had never shared a decent conversation in their lives, though they had been acquainted for more than six years. He had always just been an arrogant prat who treated her as beneath his notice, except for the few times when he had insulted her. The little she knew about him convinced her that they had absolutely nothing - NOTHING - in common. Everything that she believed in and stood for was anathema to him. Well, maybe not all of it - after all, he had joined the Order, which had been a great shock for her - but she knew he was still opposed to many of her beliefs. And she wasn't beautiful, so there was nothing about her to attract him. So he just couldn't like her like _that_.

That was where Hermione made her logical fallacy. She started with her conclusion (Zabini was not harbouring any romantic feelings for her), and reasoned backward from there. He had earned her trust and her grudging respect during the mission, so she tried to assume the best. Zabini obviously felt no ill will toward her; his behaviour on the trip proved that. Maybe he never had, and the pureblood stance had been an act to keep the Slytherins off his case. Or maybe he had had a serious change of heart since his villa burned down. Somehow, he was a friend now, though he didn't know how (or perhaps want) to show it. Come to think of it, he had never really had any friends. Sure, he had sometimes hung around Malfoy and that crowd, but not very often. He had always been more of a loner. So he definitely needed someone to befriend him, now that he was a reliable member of the Order and all. He must know that everyone wasn't quite sure about him. He shouldn't be treated as an outsider anymore when he had proven his loyalties. She would have to get right on that. After all, she owed him her life.

And the kiss? She was hard-pressed to explain that, but she finally came up with something. Judging from his behaviour while under the influence of _Resolutio Interiora,_ Zabini was a true Italian at heart. Italian was definitely his first language. It seemed he even thought in Italian, since he had found it difficult expressing himself in English and hadn't responded to certain remarks by the twins that would usually have resulted in a verbal spar. And his accent had become heavier, too, showing he probably made an effort to subdue it under normal circumstances. So he was an Italian trying to function in a British world. Italians were more emotional and expressive, right? Didn't they normally kiss each other as a way of life? Not on the mouth (Hermione couldn't stretch it quite that far), but they _did _kiss each other. And it wasn't like he had just kissed her after a quiet jaunt down a forest path. He had done it after a fight whose outcome determined whether they would be captured and tortured. So he had kissed her to celebrate getting away safely, maybe. There were people who did that, and they didn't mean anything by it. They weren't people that she normally respected, but in Zabini's case she could make an exception. She felt all his good points outweighed that one unsavoury detail.

So Zabini was an expressive Italian at heart, and he had kissed her because he was happy to be alive. She filed that piece of information (along with her memory of the kiss) deep in the recesses of her brain, making a mental note not to re-examine the incident any time soon. She fully meant to forget about it now that she had come to terms with it. She needed her energies for the next task she had set herself: to be a friend to Blaise Zabini.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is named after the same-titled song, with the version sung by Bobby Darin in mind.

Thank you all for your lovely reviews!


	7. I Get a Kick Out of You

A/N: Hi there! It's your usually unobtrusive authoress! Before we begin, I have to attend to a bit of housekeeping. Firstly, remember that obscure corner of the globe that I mentioned in the disclaimer as my home? Well, I will soon be temporarily relocating to somewhere even more remote, so much so that I won't have access to internet or computers. This means that there will be no updates to this story for about two months. The good news is that the chapter you are about to read is extra-long to try to make up for that. So please enjoy and let me know your reactions!

Speaking of reviews, that brings me to my second point. I have my own ideas about my writing - what works and what doesn't. But I want to compare that with what you think. So I have a favour to ask you. As you read this, could you please make mental notes of what you like _AND _what you don't like, and the reasons for your feeling this way? (That last bit is very important - if your reaction is just, "I like it!" or "This is awful!", I have no idea what I'm doing right or wrong.) Then please let me know your notes in a review. I know it takes some time to write a review like this, but I would be sooooooo thankful if you did that for me. Please don't shy away from mentioning weak points. I won't be hurt if you say it nicely. Everything has room for improvement. And of course, if you don't have the time or inclination to write a review like this, I still appreciate quick reviews, too.

And now, without further interruptions, we return you to your regularly scheduled chapter!

* * *

Of the few passions that stirred Blaise Zabini to the core of his being, one was cuisine. Cuisine was an art form of the highest kind, one that could only be truly appreciated by persons with finely developed sensibilities in taste. The best cuisine was, of course, Italian. Nothing could compare to the tang of vine-ripened tomatoes, the pungency of aged cheeses, the smooth richness of olive oil, the multiple heady notes of vintage wine. Of all Italian cuisine, the pre-eminent kind was from his home province of Sardegna. Juicy porceddu, smoky malloreddus, minty culingioni, and hearty panada were among the finest dishes in the world. And of all Sardegnian dishes, Blaise's favourite was the best dessert mankind had ever created, sebadas. When he had been attending Hogwarts, his house-elves had been under strict orders to send him a batch the first of every month. He used to take his package down to the kitchen, where he would carefully warm the fritters to just the right temperature before smothering them with pure, golden honey from La Maddalena. They had never tasted exactly as they ought - there was no equalling that just-fried taste fresh out of the pot - but they were far better than any of the dishes he had to suffer through in the dining hall. He would sit in the kitchen savouring his sebadas, smug in the knowledge that there was one person at least in that miserable school who could discern excellent cooking when it stared them in the face.

Blaise had not enjoyed a good meal - let alone seen a sebada - since he had joined the Order. No one here appreciated food like they should. They were all too dull to realise that some of life's chief enjoyments came from the perfect combination of delectable flavours and that even a war with the Dark Lord should not stand in the way of their enjoyment of such. Not that he had tried to convince them otherwise. Blaise had swallowed hastily contrived dinners on the run like everyone else and had politely endured Mrs Weasley's cooking for months without a murmur. True, she was puzzled about why he ate so little compared to her own boys, but she seemed to have decided he had a naturally light appetite. She had never suspected he privately thought her cooking could be bested by the mess that would result if a poltergeist went on the rampage in her kitchen. Meanwhile, Blaise's mind became more and more fixated on tagliatelle, pane carasau, and especially sebadas. He had never gone this long without sebadas before, and every time the first of the month rolled around, his craving intensified tenfold. It was at the point where he couldn't go for an hour without envisioning a hot plate of fresh sebadas dripping with honey. What made it all the worse was the fact that he probably wasn't going to have the opportunity to feast on sebadas until the end of the war. Considering the rate at which Potter and company were discovering whatever it was that they thought necessary for the Dark Lord's demise, Blaise figured his chances of surviving until then were small.

After waking up from the most beautiful, contented, happiest, _wrong _dreams he had ever had, his memories of the mission and its aftermath assailed him like unexpected ice water being dashed over his head. His quietly satisfied feeling fled before the knowledge that he had just managed to completely humiliate himself. Everything that had occurred since he had entered the vault in the Office of Aurors - every emotion, action, thought, touch, taste, and smell - was seared on his memory. How he felt about Hermione Granger was something he had never begun to work out. He had always shoved that particular thorny issue to the outlying expanse of his mind where ideas should go to die and coped by avoiding her as much as possible. And now not only she, but Molly and the identical idiots and probably everyone else in the Order knew that his mind sometimes exhibited the infuriating tendency to wander where she was concerned. Under the influence of _Resolutio Interiora, _his mind could apparently wander a whole lot - it had shot out of the constraints of logic like a racehorse out of the gate and torn straight down the path to ruin. Mentally replaying the events of the mortifying episode proved too painful for Blaise, producing a feeling akin to what he might feel if he tried to slowly saw off each of his extremities. This feeling crystallised into the fierce conviction that Blaise could not think about Hermione Granger until he had first been fortified by a good plate of sebadas.

Coincidentally enough, this goal was obtainable. On his latest trip to pick up Polyjuice samples from the Order's dealer in a Mancunian dry cleaning shop, he had walked by a bookshop displaying a hideous blue book in its front window. And he had kept walking, because there was no way he would ever be interested in a Muggle book with a cover featuring cutesy nautical symbols, a ridiculous depiction of a pastoral Italian couple, and an unappetising Muggle picture of conchiglie ai carciofi. All that rot was headlined by the blaring title, _The Cooking of the Sardinians: Sweet Flavours From Wild Lands and Sea Horizons._ It was a mark of his desperation that he eventually not only backtracked, but also entered the store, flipped through the book, disdainfully perused its sebadas recipe, and finally made his first Muggle purchase with flimsy Muggle currency. He had since transfigured the cover to a decent black leather, with the words _Battle Tactics Employed in Russia's Wizarding War of 1815 _emblazoned in silver on the front.

If that had been a mark of his desperation, today was a sign that he was grasping at the last straws of his sanity. It was his first day out of bed since the mission, and Blaise could be found in the Weasley kitchen gripping his black book and hunting down ingredients with the determination of a Hungarian Horntail on the trail of fresh blood. The look on his face forbade anyone from interfering with him, and consequently everyone seemed to be giving the kitchen a wide berth. Not that his facial expression would have helped him much if any of the Weasley clan thought he had infringed on Granger's honour or been anything less than a faithful mission partner. He could just picture them all in here now, holding him down and relieving him of his manhood as a warning to ensure that he would tread carefully where she was concerned. But there was no sign of ginger hair anywhere, so whatever Granger had told them must have been a rather edited account.

It was pathetic that the Weasleys were too poor to maintain house-elves. There was no reason why Blaise should have to do his own cooking if he wanted a special recipe. He was a guest in their house, not to mention he had just risked his life to save their son. True, Ron had ended up being nowhere near the Ministry, but nobody had known that at the beginning of the mission.

Yes, Blaise Zabini had indeed reached a new low. He had never thought his life would come to this - risking his life for the redheaded runt and Saint Potter, doing his own cooking, and…thinking the Muggle-born looked sexy when she was pounding someone with her fists. (Who would have thought Granger had it in her? Apparently Malfoy hadn't been exaggerating when he had groused endlessly about his nose in their third year.) But enough of that. Why didn't the Weasleys have any pecorino? They had absolutely no appreciation for the different varieties of cheese.

Blaise needed pecorino - a sebada wouldn't be a sebada without it - yet all that he found in the kitchen were the usual tired cheeses. He did find some parmesan, which before today he would never have dreamed of putting in a sebada. But at this point he felt he would be happy to see a sebada in any form, even if it was the sorriest excuse for a sebada that was ever misbegotten by men or elves.

And so things progressed without improvement, but he was a man with his mind made up. Nothing was going to stand in his way, even if he did have to hand-massage a pound of flour, three eggs, seven ounces of water, a pinch of salt, and one-and-three-quarters ounces of butter together. He certainly hoped these Muggle authors Paolo Prada and Vanda Ricciuti knew how to write a recipe better than they knew how to design a book cover. At least they sounded Italian. He would never have even considered the book if it had been written by an Agnes Smith or some other Brit. Still, he was going to be very put out with them if this was all for naught. He was making a mess of a perfectly decent shirt (well, it wasn't like he was about to wear an apron), and the dough was somehow working its way up to his elbows.

He was still in the same situation ten minutes later, only now he was cursing the dough, Muggle authors (even if they were Italian), poor wizarding families who didn't keep house-elves, and the Dark Lord himself, when he heard a slight noise behind him. He whirled around, dusting the floor with the flour that fell from his hands, and saw Granger standing uncertainly in the doorway. Great, so now his horrendous week was complete. Was she somehow insensitive to the irate vibrations that were surrounding this kitchen and warning everyone to stay away?

"Hi," she said hesitantly, her arms crossed protectively in front of her.

He glared at her. He couldn't deal with her right now. "Hi," he grudgingly answered.

She stepped into the kitchen tentatively, looking nervous. Well, she should be. He needed to be alone, and here she was violating his makeshift sanctum. What had happened to all her supposed brains? Didn't _Resolutio Interiora _ring any bells? He knew she had researched it. Granger simply would not have _not _researched it. So she knew his secrets, now. But no, that wasn't enough. She couldn't just leave them in peace. Apparently she needed to talk about it. How exactly like a female.

Her eyes took in the half-formed dough, the shirt with globs of dough hanging from it, the flour to his elbows, the mess that was Molly's kitchen, but she said nothing about it. Instead, she crossed the room until she was standing about a metre away and said almost shyly, "Zabini, I have two things to say to you."

He quirked an eyebrow and turned back to kneading the dough, acting as if he were utterly competent at the menial task. Which, of course, he was not. "Oh?"

"Yes." She sighed before straightening. He watched her nonchalantly out of the corner of his eye and resolutely ignored the taut nerves that her presence was inspiring. "Firstly, I just wanted to say…" She bit her lip before continuing. "You saved me in the Aurors' vault and both of us again later, and I want to say thank you. I know you didn't want to go, but your bravery made the mission a success. I couldn't have done it without you." She said the word "bravery" carefully, as if she weren't sure how he would react. Truth be told, he didn't know how to react to Granger's using an absurd, Gryffindor-tainted word to describe him. He glanced at her and glanced back at the dough. She was completely omitting the part where they had fought about the best course of action concerning the vault. Did he not get a, "I'm sorry, Zabini you were right and I was wrong" out of this? Because he certainly knew he deserved one.

"And secondly," she continued, "I need to apologise." Ah, so here it was. He stopped kneading and turned to face her so he could forever remember the look on Granger's face as she said it. She watched him narrowly before plunging ahead. "I've been arrogant and prejudiced, and I completely misjudged you. When I looked at you, I only ever saw 'Slytherin' and not the person you are. And that was wrong. Your associations don't define you. Your choices do, and I've seen you make some exemplary ones. You proved yourself on this trip, and I was wrong to doubt you. I'm sorry."

Blaise was astounded. Granger was calling herself arrogant and prejudiced (weren't those usually words she reserved for him?) and apologising for it? She frowned slightly, waiting for him to say something, but his brain was still stuck at, "I completely misjudged you." She apparently decided she could expect no more than his stunned silence and continued, "And I was wondering if maybe we could start over? Could we put all this bias behind us and just be two people with a common cause? I think…" She looked down uncomfortably. "I think that if we could manage to treat each other with respect, we could even be friends." She was darting hesitant glances up at him every now and then before returning her eyes to the floor. "I think there's a lot we could learn from each other."

Wow, Granger sure knew how to blindside him. Had she somehow fallen from the roof of the Burrow and landed on her head while he had been recovering? He could think of no other way to explain her obvious amnesia. She seemed to have completely forgotten the fact that he was afflicted with a reluctant fancy for her. The small detail that he had grabbed her and kissed her could not have just slipped her mind. He had been dreading the next time he would see her, knowing she would come armed with several libraries' worth of information on _Resolutio Interiora _and would be upset, to say the least, that its effect on him caused him to kiss her. But no, here she was standing quietly and suggesting they be friends. Oh, yes, Blaise, why don't we be friends? Doesn't that sound like a marvellous idea? We could share our favourite books and form an organisation together to improve the public image of Slytherins! Have that heart-to-heart I've been needing that would be _way _over the heads of my wanker friends! Yes, why don't we?

The silence stretched out awkwardly. She was starting to look a bit crestfallen. "Granger, are you feeling all right?" Blaise asked. "The brain requires a considerable period of time to recover equilibrium after being subjected to certain specialised forms of torture, which I think you underwent. And I don't think three days is quite enough…"

She gave him a sharp look. "I'm fine, Zabini, thank you. I know what I'm saying, and I know it may seem uncharacteristic of me, but I've spent a lot of time thinking about this. I know I've treated you shoddily since you joined the Order, all right? And I can be woman enough to admit when I'm wrong. So I really am sorry, and I want to start over with you."

His mind darted about searching for other explanations for her behaviour and came up empty. "I'm not the sort of person you could be friends with, Granger."

"You let me be the judge of that," she answered dismissively. "You might think you have me pinned down, but you'd be wrong." Blaise highly doubted that, but remained silent.

Now was the perfect time to bring up some business he'd known he would have to discuss with her, but he resisted. He toyed with the idea of letting it go unaddressed and knew it wouldn't do. He forced himself to speak up. "Granger?"

"You can call me Hermione. I think you've earned it."

He ignored her daft syrupiness and went on. "About the Forest of Dean…" He rubbed his neck with his hand, only to find he had just given himself a lovely coating of buttery flour. He dropped his hand to his side again. "I'm sorry for…about what happened. I would never do… I would never have just grabbed you like that…"

"Oh, that's all right, Zabini," she interrupted cheerily. "I understand."

His mind blanked. "You do?"

"Yes," she said, using her wand to clean the flour from his neck. He was so dazed that he let her do it. "I know it's difficult trying to adjust to a less emotionally expressive culture, and I don't hold it against you."

What in the world was she talking about? "Er, all right… I just want you to know that I really am sorry."

"Sure, Zabini," she said placidly. "Now then, can I help you in here?"

He glanced down at his floury hands in mild confusion, gradually remembering what he was in the kitchen for. "That's all right, Grang - er, Herm - uh, no, don't touch that!"

She was leaning over to read from his open cookbook on the counter. "Sebadas?" she read aloud. "Never heard of them. Where'd you find this book? I didn't know Mrs Weasley -" She had been closing the book and stopped speaking now that she could see its cover. His reaction time was so delayed by his lingering shock that he didn't move quickly enough to stop her. Hermione was looking down at the words "Battle Tactics Employed in Russia's Wizarding War of 1815", her brow puckered thoughtfully. Oh, blast it all! He watched her with misgiving, waiting to hear what she would say.

Finally she looked up, a dimple in her left cheek betraying her suppressed smile. "You know, Zabini, Russia didn't have a wizarding war in 1815. The Hebelsteins didn't even think about an uprising until at least twenty years later."

"Of course there was a war in 1815," Blaise retorted, peeved. "Who said anything about the Hebelsteins?"

"But the Hebelsteins were the gatekeepers for eleven generations. There wouldn't have been a war without their support, and they weren't interested in rebellion until thirty years later."

"What would the Hogwarts teachers say if they found out their golden student didn't pay any attention in Professor Binns' class?" reprimanded Blaise. "Don't you remember anything about taxes on house-elves sparking a rather obscure little war?"

Granger had been ready to snap at him over the Binns remark, but apparently she was giving this fresh leaf idea a serious go. She had restrained herself and was now frowning in reflection. "Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Grischa Hebelstein's half-daughter Vassilia married that radical nobleman, what's his name…"

"Baron Soronov."

"Yes, and together they stirred up the proletariat to demand relief from her father, and it ended in a five-day battle at the Russian Ministry of Magic. Right?" She beamed.

"Six days, Granger."

"Six days, then. But I would hardly call that a war."

"I never said it was a large war. But it was a war, and it set the precedent for the Russian Wizarding Civil War of the latter half of the century. So its influence makes up for its length. Besides, the book is only about two hundred pages, so _obviously _it would be chronicling the tactics of a small war."

"But it's not chronicling any war tactics at all," she pointed out. "So its length needn't be a clue."

"Of course it's a clue," he argued. "It's not like I'm an ignorant first year who would assign the first famous war that came to mind to a book whose length didn't correspond."

"Granted," conceded Hermione, and then, exasperatingly, she smiled. She flipped open the book again and read the sebada recipe. He considered telling her to sod off but decided to ignore her instead. He was just deciding his dough was a lost cause and glaring at it in frustration when she looked up. She glanced at the dough, then at him, and said, "So, have you ever done this before?"

"What?" Blaise asked, hoping his stubborn obtuseness would discourage her. Of course he hadn't done this before. Cooking was for house-elves (or women, if there were no house-elves available).

"Cooked," she clarified. Her unaffected cheeriness was starting to give him a headache. He glared sidelong at her.

"I haven't done it much either," Granger continued, as if he had just given her a decent answer, "but I think your problem may be that you don't know how to measure ingredients properly."

Forget that about a headache developing. Blaise had one already, pulsing in his left temple. He wavered between his pride and his desire for sebadas. Sebadas won out, and he grudgingly made room for her at the counter. Hermione put on an apron and pulled back her lively hair while Blaise disposed of the dough. Then Hermione showed him how to measure ingredients, making sure not to pack anything down and levelling off everything with the flat side of a knife. Blaise couldn't exactly tell her to go away after that, so she stayed all the way through. While they waited for a half an hour for the dough to sit, Blaise suffered through Granger's gruelling attempts to get to know him. What did he like to do? What were his favourite books? What were his favourite school subjects? He gave the most oblique answers possible. She tried to encourage him by answering the questions as they applied to herself. Merlin, for being a bright girl, Granger could not take a hint.

Later, as they were forming the sebadas, Blaise looked over at Hermione's capable hands managing the dough and noticed a flash of black on her left wrist. He had observed it before in the months since he had joined the Order, but he had never gotten close enough to see what it was. Curious, he continued to watch her hands out of the corner of his eye. The black appeared to be ink, which stretched in a thin column of writing from her palm far down her wrist. As she reached out for a dough circle to finish her sebada, he reached out and deftly caught her left hand in his own. He flipped her hand over and concentrated on the writing as Hermione raised surprised eyes to him but held still. On her hand was written:

_Out of the night that covers me,  
__Black as the Pit from pole to pole,  
__I thank whatever gods may be  
__For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance  
__I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
__Under the bludgeonings of chance  
__My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears__  
Looms but the horror of the shade,  
__And yet the menace of the years  
__Finds, and shall find me, unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the gate,  
__How charged with punishments the scroll,  
__I am the master of my fate:  
__I am the captain of my soul.  
_

He released her hand when he finished reading, deep in thought.

"You could have just asked, you know," Hermione said quietly, the slightest trace of reprimand in her voice.

"Did you write that?" Blaise asked.

"No. It's a poem written in the late 1800's called 'Invictus'."

_Invictus_ - undefeated, invincible. Blaise returned to shaping the sebadas. He had just glimpsed a hidden aspect of Hermione, a side which he found somewhat depressing. It was strong, but it was joyless - unlike the persistent cheerfulness she had recently been flaunting. It brought him back to the moment he had crept up on the Auror in the vault. Blaise had visually followed the direction of the Auror's wand to Hermione, cringing on the floor, her face contorted with pain but no sound leaving her lips. He had been swept away by a torrent of wrath and hatred toward the man who could treat her that way, and he had not shown him any kindness. "I'm sorry," said Blaise shortly.

"I don't mind your seeing it," Hermione said. "If I wanted to hide it, I would have disillusioned it. I just don't like being manhandled." She turned back to working the dough and spoke calmly, as if she were used to telling him secrets about herself. "My whole life, I've written down quotes I like in notebooks. Since I don't have my books anymore, my notebooks are all I have to read if I want to revisit my old favourites. I open them up every once in awhile when I have a moment, just to remember who I am and where I've been and where I want to go."

Something about that statement struck him. "So you wrote that down before the war?"

"Yes, I transcribed it when I was at Hogwarts."

Blaise was baffled. What could possibly have driven Hermione to identify with that poem at Hogwarts? She had always seemed…well, not exactly carefree, but not as if she were dealing with the weight of the world. Someone had to be in a dark place to relate to that poem.

"Anyway," Hermione continued, "nowadays, when I find something that I really want to remember, I'll write it down on my hands. I never know when I'm going to be called away on a mission or if we'll be attacked or something, and I want to be able to look at it when I don't have my notebooks with me."

"Did you have that on your hand the day of the mission?" he asked.

"No. I usually just disillusion the writing if I don't want anyone to see it. But when I go on missions I don't want to have any identifying information on me, and that poem was written by a Muggle."

Blaise nodded once, understanding what was unsaid. "Oh."

They finished forming the sebadas in something nearing comfortable silence. Then they fried the pastries in hot oil, a task both found difficult. Hermione kept asking him if the sebadas looked like they were done, but Blaise couldn't tell under all that oil. They ruined quite a few before they managed to create something resembling a cooked sebada. They were both tired by the time they sat down at the Weasley's kitchen table, armed with a jar of honey. With high anticipation, Blaise fastidiously drizzled the honey over his sebadas. Hermione watched him closely as he bit into the fritter and chewed meditatively. Well, it didn't taste like any sebada he had ever had, but somehow his disappointment wasn't as keen as it might have been.

"How is it?" asked Hermione.

"It needs pecorino. It's not good, but it's not awful, either. Just don't think all sebadas are like this."

Hermione started dripping honey onto her own sebadas. "How much do I put on?"

"It depends on how much you want. I'd use a little more."

She poured out some more before taking a bite and wrinkling her nose a little. "It's…interesting," she said finally.

"You ought to try the ones from Sardegna before you make up your mind about them."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Do you mind my asking why you wanted to make these?"

Her tone and look were gently inviting, demanding nothing. He knew that he could decline an answer without offending her. Yet somehow, perhaps because she had explained about the writing on her hand, Blaise did not decline. He suddenly found himself haltingly telling her about times which, though not quite happy, were better than the present. Earlier times, when he had learned to be alone and even found a sort of comfort in it. Walking to the beach when the moon was full, sitting by the sea and watching the tide come in. Standing in his father's old room staring at the possessions of a man he did not know. Reading in an easy chair in the Zabini library while opera played on the wireless. Eating sebadas in an empty dining room overlooking the sea, the taste of honey on his tongue and shearwaters wheeling outside on an ocean breeze. Times when he had learned to value pleasure and beauty where he could find it - in music, in books, in cuisine, in nature. Things he had never spoken of before. And though he couldn't express what he meant, he felt that underneath all the faltering sentences, Hermione understood.

Later, when they were cleaning up their mess, Blaise said, "You know, Granger, this doesn't repay the life debt you owe me."

Her head whipped toward him, and she exclaimed, "I don't owe you a life debt!"

"Yes, you do. Remember how I saved your life at least once?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking, you did. But I would have had to be in immediate mortal danger for a life debt to have formed," Hermione said indignantly. "Both times the threat was distant. They wouldn't have just killed me right then. They needed my information!"

"There are differences of opinions on whether you needed to have been in immediate danger. In my book, you owe me at least one life debt."

"I should count myself fortunate that your book doesn't list two!" she retorted.

"You never know, it might. We'll have to see."

With a tone that was more like friendly banter than anger, she spat, "Insufferable git!"

* * *

A/N: Chapter title taken from the same-titled song as sung by Frank Sinatra, the man with the voice you could fall in love with (well, at least I could). "Invictus" was written by William Ernest Henley.

Thank you to everyone who has come this far with me, and thank you in advance for your reviews! See you in a few months!


	8. This Town

A/N: I'm back! I'm so sorry for failing to update at the appointed time. This story takes a lot more time to write than expected!

This chapter is named after the same-titled song by (who else?) Frank Sinatra.

* * *

For the past four days, Blaise Zabini had been trailing a Ministry official on holiday with his family at a wizarding seaside resort. Today the family had experienced an inexplicable whim to explore nearby Muggle Ilfracombe. Now Blaise was hanging about High Street in Ilfracombe, downing Polyjuice like it was firewhiskey and rather wishing that it were. He wasn't used to these types of places. He had never even been to Muggle gathering places (excepting a few brief visits to London, the town of La Maddalena, and a handful of Italian cultural treasures) before he had joined the Order. Since then, he had visited several sprawling Muggle cities, but his feeling of discomfort when he visited them never abated. His regular visits to Manchester to pick up Polyjuice samples should have desensitised him enough to handle this - after all, Manchester was immense in size and population, while Ilfracombe was small. Still, there was something about Ilfracombe that set his nerves on edge. Maybe it was just that he had been trailing this family too long and felt the need to be doing something immediately productive. Maybe the claustrophobic smallness of Ilfracombe made him feel exposed. Or maybe it was just a gut feeling that Ilfracombe held no good for him today.

Blaise had been waiting outside Walker's Chocolate Emporium for the past hour, and the family still showed no sign of wearying of the offerings inside. Luckily, there was a pub directly across the narrow street, and Blaise was keeping a vigilant eye on the chocolate shop from a table near to the pub's window. Due to his inability to produce satisfactory Muggle identifying information, he was trying to content himself with ginger beer. Awful stuff, really, and entirely too weak for what he wanted. He could see the official's two children across the street in the emporium, adoring the six-foot chocolate lolly man and begging their parents for yet more candy. As if those children needed any more sugar. If Blaise were those children's father, he would have put them on a strict no-sugar diet years ago. They were clearly too hyperactive for their own good. He raised his eyebrows as the children's mother nodded assent to a handful of chocolates being added to their pile of purchases. The children darted off to scout out more sweets, and Blaise sighed. Obviously they wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

A crowd of tourists momentarily blocked his view of Walker's Chocolate Emporium, rousing Blaise from his morose contemplations of how long it would take for the children to wheedle their parents into buying them the whole store. And suddenly, he spotted her—a gorgeous blonde trying to steal her way down the street unnoticed. Not that she was accomplishing this in a manner that could be considered successful. Simply put, her looks turned heads. Especially Blaise's, seeing as he had snogged this girl in the line of duty not three weeks before. He was fairly certain it wasn't a common coincidence to kiss a girl during a mission in Newcastle upon Tyne and later spot the same girl while on a mission in Ilfracombe. And since Blaise didn't believe in coincidence in cases like these, he and said girl were going to have to have a little chat.

During their last encounter, Blaise had managed to snag a sample of the girl's hair, intending to add it to the Order's Polyjuice sample collection. When he had later filed the hair away, he had carefully labelled it as:

_Female; mid-20__'__s; approx. 1.65m; blonde; highly attractive; possibly part Veela; use with caution. Last name unknown, Veronise._

With the unmistakable likeness of the girl walking down the same Ilfracombe street that he had staked out, Blaise faced two possible conclusions. Either this girl was not as harmless as she had originally seemed and was now trailing him, or she was one of his fellow Order members trying to carry out an ill-advised mission. If the latter, apparently she couldn't read. It was not using caution to attract every male's attention in the vicinity. Blaise couldn't see a reason to use that particular Polyjuice sample in Ilfracombe, nor even why the Order would necessitate a mission to this area. He hadn't heard anything about such a mission, not that they ever told him much anyway. But if this girl was Veronise, Blaise was now in a very tricky situation. Her being here would mean his cover had been blown and that she had somehow found a way to track him even when he was using a different Polyjuice sample.

Feeling his eyes on her, the girl shot a fleeting, hesitant glance in his direction. Their gazes locked for a moment before her eyes darted away. Noting that her hands were empty, Blaise allowed himself to look away from the potential threat to check on his targets in the emporium. The family was still occupied with perusing chocolates and clearly wouldn't be done for some time. That gave him some time to deal with the girl. He waited until the girl had passed the pub before rising from the table and making his way to the door. He stood there, hanging back in the door and watching the girl make her way down the street, and tried to figure out what her plan might be. If she had been scoping out the pub for a plan of attack, she had made a fatal mistake by meeting his eyes. Now they each knew the other was there, throwing a surprise attack out the window.

The girl was making her way carefully down the street, walking at a quick pace but trying to appear nonchalant. She overtook and passed the crowd of tourists, causing her blonde head to be obscured from Blaise's vision. So it was to be a hunt, then. The question was, who was the hunter and who was the prey?

Aware that he could be walking into a trap, Blaise swung out the door and headed in the direction the girl had gone. He would rather meet her head-on than wait for her to surprise him. He reached the tourists and took up a place at the back of the crowd. The crowd moved too slowly for his liking, but it was ideal cover. Blaise could see the girl far up the street. She had slowed down a bit and was biting her lip as she glanced around her. He hunched down behind an enamoured couple meandering hand-in-hand at the back of the group of tourists, too caught up in one another to pay attention to their surroundings. He straightened just in time to see the girl step into a side street. Blaise ducked into a sandwich shop on the right, mentally calculating the time it would take for the tourists to pass the girl's location. He was gambling that she had chosen that side street as a place to ambush him and hadn't actually been headed anywhere that direction. When the tourists passed and he wasn't among them, she would eventually be forced to come out.

Blaise suddenly realised that the worker behind the sandwich shop counter was trying to get his attention. He silenced her with a glare that warned her of a fate worse than death if she attempted to inform him about today's special on liverwurst. Revelling in the silence, he returned to his contemplations. All right, the tourists should have passed by now. If he waited a few more moments, he should see the girl pass this very shop on her way back to the pub to attack him. But she never came. Finally Blaise poked his head out of the shop, only to see a flash of blonde disappear around a bend in High Street in the exact opposite direction that he'd guessed she would go. Great. He'd have to hurry if he was going to catch up with her.

Blaise reached the bend in the road where he had lost sight of the girl and was relieved to find that he could see her far up the street. He joined a small group of tourists who shot him curious looks, but he ignored them. They moved at a decent pace, so they suited his purpose. Together they walked up the street, keeping the girl in sight. Blaise frowned. There was something about this girl that was familiar, and not because he had interacted with Veronise before. Actually, this girl wasn't acting at all like the Veronise he had met a few weeks ago. The way she walked, the way she carried herself, even the way she frowned—it was all different. Not that those things necessarily meant anything. If she really was a spy or assassin, Veronise would be capable of assuming many different guises and mannerisms. But it was _who _she reminded Blaise of that niggled at his mind. She reminded him of a witch that should be safely back at the Burrow, a witch who would be too smart to try to pull off a part-Veela disguise in a Muggle town. He mentally shook himself. Too many things prompted his thoughts to veer in that witch's direction lately, a direction he always found trickily difficult to re-route. Consequently, he wasted entirely too much time thinking about her. _Focus, Blaise,_ he scolded himself. It was happenstance, of course, that the blonde's steps betrayed self-conscious caution tempered with stubborn determination. Granger was nowhere near here. The Order would never risk sending her alone on a mission.

As Blaise's sightseers reached an intersection with Northfield Road, a crowd of young, loud tourists drunk too early in the day stumbled out from the right and tangled with Blaise's crowd. A commotion of confusion, cursing, and apologies ensued. By the time Blaise managed to extract himself from it all, he found himself looking up High Street with no stunning blonde in sight. Blast. He continued cautiously up the street, gripping his wand in his pant pocket, being careful to check doorways and alleyways. Now would be the perfect time for the girl to strike. He was certain that he was about to be attacked, and he wasn't about to be caught off-guard.

Blaise was shocked when he glanced inside a bookshop across the street and glimpsed the girl's blonde head bowed over an open book. Um, right. Veronise had definitely seemed the type of girl to visit Ilfracombe to buy books from Ilfracombe Book Shop & Antique Centre. Blaise's confusion resulted in a moment of true disorientation. He forced himself to move, taking up residence in Turner-Carr Property Centre directly across the street from the bookshop.

The windows in the property centre were plastered with sheets of paper containing Muggle photographs of houses and print descriptions of the properties. These papers provided cover at the window for most of Blaise's body while he peered out from between two handbills. Across the street, the girl seemed intent on making Ilfracombe Book Shop her new home. She was greedily clasping an open book in her hands, leaning against a bookshelf and reading with rapture. Oh, please. This girl was fooling no one. Her cover was already blown, and no amount of acting like a book-besotted tourist would throw him off her trail. The family he was supposed to be trailing would be wrapped up in Walker's Chocolate Emporium for a while yet, so Blaise could afford to wait to confront her.

Five or ten minutes passed, and the girl continued book-browsing with an enthusiasm that could only be genuine if exhibited by Granger. Blaise was getting tired of all this play-acting. The girl had to know that she couldn't stay in there forever. And why would she want to, when she was obviously here to target him? Suddenly the girl snapped her book shut and slid it neatly back into its place on the shelf. Ah, here it was. She was going to come out now. Instead, she slowly meandered toward the back of the store, tilting her head sideways and reading the spines of books as she went. She stepped behind a row of shelves at the back of the store, effectively obscuring her from his vision. That was it. Blaise wasn't going to let her to escape out the bathroom window or something while he waited here. He was going in there right now.

Blaise strode purposefully out of the realty centre, glanced both ways before crossing the street, and was nearing the door of the bookshop when the girl emerged from behind the shelves. He dove out of the view of the shop windows and took cover behind some sort of grey metal box that appeared to be attached to the pavement in front of the craft store to the left. He crouched down, pretending to read whatever was written on the grey box—something about electricity (Muggles were just unfathomable sometimes)—but really keeping an eye on the girl in the book shop. She had approached the sales counter and was addressing the clerk there. The clerk was having difficulty concealing his awe of the leggy blonde—he had forgotten to close his hanging mouth and looked ready to drool. From the positioning of the girl's back and shoulders, Blaise guessed she had to repeat whatever she said before the clerk dazedly nodded and handed her a small, thin, white stick. She took it and headed back to her hiding place behind the bookshelves.

Blaise straightened and entered the bookshop. Nodding toward the clerk, who ignored him and only stared fixedly at the spot where the girl had disappeared behind the shelves, Blaise made his way to the back of the shop. He stepped carefully, navigating dusty shelves of books and ancient rubbish while making no sound. He rounded the corner where the girl had disappeared and was able to glimpse her through two bookshelves. She was at the very back of the store, her back toward him. She had balanced an open book on top of the books on a shelf at the height of her elbow and was glancing at it now and then before looking down in front of her. Odd.

Blaise was just stepping forward to accost the girl when he realised what she was doing. This stopped him mid-stride and drove him back into an aisle where he could regroup. She was using the white stick (which somehow produced ink) to write on her left hand, apparently copying down something from the book. He only knew of one person in the world who did something like that regularly, and it wasn't Veronise. But Hermione just wouldn't be here. There were entirely too many reasons that discounted the notion of her being in Ilfracombe alone.

Blaise considered his options. Until now, he had been reasonably sure that the girl was Veronise and not a fellow Order member misguidedly using her sample. But the girl's behaviour was making him begin to wonder. Blaise had to confront her; that much was obvious. He couldn't just allow a look-alike of Veronise to wander around the same town that he had to be in for the rest of the day. It would jeopardise his mission, not to mention his life. But if the girl were a member of the Order, he might be putting her mission at risk by revealing her.

Making his decision, Blaise abruptly stepped forward and advanced on her. She was absorbed in what she was doing and didn't notice his presence at all as he came up behind her. He wrapped his right arm around her right arm and waist, providing cover for him to press his wand into her back. He hoped that, to the passer-by, the close positioning of their bodies would convey the impression that he was simply a man teasing his lover. The girl's body went rigid and she drew a quick intake of breath.

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "It's Stammer. You have thirty seconds to prove you're a friend." If she were a member of the Order, she would recognise his codename.

"What makes you think I'm a friend?" she retorted under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

"I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. It's in your best interest to try harder. Fifteen seconds."

The girl was silent. When Blaise had counted down to five seconds, she whispered, "There was a six-day Russian wizarding war in 1815."

Blaise was genuinely surprised, instantly making the connection to his conversation with Hermione about his cookbook nearly a month before. The girl he was holding had presented an excellent identifying statement. Vague, but pointed enough to convince him if he were really who he said he was. And if he wasn't who he said he was, then she hadn't revealed any personal information about Blaise Zabini. He felt a rush of confused emotions as he realised this was Granger he had his arm around. He released her and backed away one pace, wand still out. As soon as his arm left her side, she whipped around and faced him, wand drawn. "Prove you're Stammer," she commanded hostilely, voice low.

They were standing so close to one another their wands were practically touching each other's stomach. She was glaring at him, this girl that looked like Veronise but was actually Hermione. He could see it in the knit of her eyebrows as she frowned, the way she held her wand. Without thinking, Blaise opened his mouth and began, "'Out of the night that covers me, black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul…'" He spoke softly so that his voice carried no farther than her ears. She watched him with wide eyes as he quoted the entire poem. Somewhere around the third verse, her wand drooped, and his followed.

"You remembered the whole thing!" Hermione exclaimed when he had finished.

He felt his face warm. _Great going, Blaise. Was it really necessary to quote it all? _Trying to cover for himself, he snapped, "What in the blazes are you doing here? Trying to get yourself killed?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Mission," she answered quietly, with the slightest shrug of her shoulders. "How did you recognise me, anyway?"

Blaise nodded toward her get-up. "I'm the one who filed your sample. When I saw you, I thought I was being tracked."

Hermione snorted. "Well, rest assured—I'm not here to _Crucio _you."

Blaise looked at her. Veronise's blonde hair fell to her mid-back in soft waves, framing a face that was done up with far more makeup than Hermione normally wore. Still, it was tastefully done. She was wearing a pale green dress that straddled the line between professional attire and formal dinner wear. A necklace of delicate silver draped around her neck, ending in a pointed star that rested in the hollow of her throat. A matching bracelet twined around her right wrist, and Blaise could see silver stars hanging from her ears and twinkling through her hair. A whiff of jasmine reached him. Although Veronise's beauty had never suited his taste, Blaise couldn't help thinking that Hermione utilised Veronise's looks better than Veronise did. Still, he couldn't understand why Hermione would be roaming Ilfracombe looking like that. "Didn't you read the note on the sample?" he asked accusingly.

She smiled but gave him a piercing look. "Yes. This is exactly what the organisation wanted."

He wanted to ask her what she was doing, why she didn't have a partner, how she planned on protecting herself. But he couldn't, not here, not in the middle of her mission. She saw the questions in his face and tried to answer him. "I'm meeting someone up the street. I arrived early, and I just couldn't resist coming in here when I saw the shop. It's been so long since I've been in a bookshop." Her eyes roamed the store longingly before her glance returned to him and cleared. "By the way, it's lucky you're here. We needed to ask you" (here she placed her left hand on his shoulder, putting her mouth near his ear) "whether you have any information that might be useful when dealing with Theodore Nott's uncle and entering his house?" Even with her lips brushing his ear, Hermione spoke so softly he could barely make out her words.

Blaise's mind flooded with questions and alarm. He knew Theodore Nott better than anyone else in the Order did. He had met Theo's uncle once or twice. Neither were people he wanted Hermione near at this point of the war. He wondered what reasoning had driven the Order to risk one of their most valuable members for such a mission. Blaise wanted to dissuade her, but he knew that if she were on a mission from the Order he would be wasting his breath.

Hermione had pulled away slightly and was watching him. He leaned forward, hand on her left arm, and spoke into her ear, trying to condense everything he knew about Theo's uncle into a few short sentences. "He's different. He thinks of himself as nobility, likes old things, likes plants and herbology. He lived in Africa when he was younger. He's lost a lot of his fortune in bad investments. He tries to write poetry, and he loves firewhiskey. He's a harsh master to his house-elves. He isn't as dangerous as Theo's father, but he's still a Death Eater. He values his reputation above anything, and he would jump at the chance to turn you in."

When he pulled away, Hermione looked at him calmly and said, "Thank you." Her tone was neutral, as if they had just been speaking of the weather. Her eyes darted over his shoulder before returning to him as she stepped closer. With lowered voice, she asked, "Do you know a woman who's about eight centimetres taller than you; dark hair probably about, hmm…shoulder-length; thin; high cheekbones; gaunt-ish face; long arms; looks ready to grab her wand any minute?"

With a start, Blaise realised that he did know such a woman, though he would describe her differently. "Yes," he replied hesitantly, foolishly hoping that this wasn't going where he thought it was.

Hermione's eyes slid behind him fleetingly again before returning to his face. "Don't look now, but she's passed by the shop window three times. I thought it wasn't a coincidence."

Blaise felt his upper back muscles squeeze with tension. "She's probably here to kill me," he said flatly.

Hermione nodded. If she was surprised, she didn't show it. "Here she comes again. Does she think you're alone?"

Blaise resisted the urge to rub his neck. "Probably. I've been alone for the past four days, and I know that she's been keeping tabs on me. But I've been talking to you too long for her to think we just ran into each other."

Hermione nodded again and began speaking urgently. "All right. Don't turn around. I'm going to throw myself at you. Catch me and hold me steady, because I'm going to take a shot over your shoulder. And for Merlin's sake, don't move while I'm doing it!"

"But—"

"No time," she interrupted. Her eyes met his and held. "Trust me."

Blaise swallowed and nodded once. Granger was looking at him like he was the only person in the whole room, but he could see by the unfocused quality of her eyes that she was timing something. Suddenly she launched herself up and at his chest, hooking her left arm around his neck. "Oh, darling, thank you!" she exclaimed loudly. Blaise wrapped his arms around her and held on tightly. He could feel her right hand dragging her wand up between them. He twisted his neck to the side so that he could incline his face and press his forehead against her temple, hoping the visual effect would distract anyone from glimpsing the point of the wand resting on his shoulder. The smell of jasmine filled his nostrils, and, agonisingly aware that a curse could strike him in the back at any moment, he concentrated on not moving a muscle. His mind was screaming, _What are you doing, putting your life in this freak__'__s hands? _And he shouted back, _Shut it, she wouldn__'__t let me die in front of her…_

"_Conangusto vasis sanguineis_!" Her whisper was barely audible in the small space between her lips and his ear. Blaise held his breath. Nothing happened for a moment. Then there was a clatter of noise at the front of the shop, followed by a thud and an exclamation. Hermione stirred in his arms, and he released her. She was looking behind him. "Oh, my! Serena!" she cried.

Granger started forward, and Blaise turned and followed after her. On the floor lay Zenobia Tae, a Death Eater that Blaise had personally tangled with six days ago and been trying to dodge ever since. He had thought that he lost her thirty-six hours previously, but obviously he was wrong. Hermione was kneeling over Zenobia on the floor. Blaise could see no sign of blood or a wound anywhere. He had understood enough of Hermione's spell to know that she had done something to the witch's blood vessels. The Death Eater's eyes were closed and her body was limp, but she was still breathing. This was complicated magic beyond Blaise's ken.

Hermione raised her eyes to him. "Charles!" she called.

As Blaise reached Granger's side, the shop clerk stepped forward. "Do you know this woman?" he asked uncertainly.

"Oh, yes," Hermione confirmed. "She's my boyfriend's sister-in-law. She has a condition that causes her to faint quite often. If Charles can just carry her outside and we can get some glucose into her, she'll be fine."

Blaise knelt beside Hermione and scooped the Death Eater up. It wasn't easy—she was taller than he was in his Polyjuice guise and hung awkwardly in his arms. Beside them, the clerk seemed unsure of his duty to the fainted woman. "Can I do anything to help?" he asked.

Blaise jumped in with, "That's not necessary. We can handle it from here." After all, the woman was supposed to be _his _sister-in-law. He should say something, though addressing Muggles wasn't his forte.

"Thank you, though," Hermione added sweetly. The clerk backed off and allowed them to exit the shop without further problems.

They had passed too many buildings and attracted too much attention by the time they found what they needed—a convenient side path leading to a private courtyard. It was blocked off by an iron gate with a sign that read, "PRIVATE, NO TRESPASSING." Granger unlocked the gate with a whispered, "_Alohomora_!", held it open for Blaise, and closed it firmly behind them. She scanned the many windows looking down into the courtyard while Blaise deposited Zenobia in a corner blocked from the view of the street.

"Was that Dark Magic?" Blaise asked Hermione, as he straightened to stand beside her.

Still scanning the windows, Granger answered without looking at him, her words tumbling out in a rush. "No, but it's only legal for Healers to use. It constricts the blood vessels in the head, preventing oxygen from reaching the brain. It causes the person to grow light-headed and eventually faint." She met his eyes, looking grim. "The spell has to be reversed by four minutes or brain damage occurs. If it's not reversed by ten minutes, they die."

Hermione suddenly didn't seem like Hermione to Blaise. She was darker, more cunning, more desperate even, dabbling at the edges of her ethical boundaries. "It's been at least four minutes," he said.

"Five, actually," she corrected hurriedly. She looked at the witch on the ground. "Is she who you thought she was?"

"Yes, she's a Death Eater," Blaise verified.

"All right. The counter-spell is _Aperto vasis sanguineis._ I'm late. Can you handle it from here?"

Blaise nodded. "'_Aperto vasis sanguineis__'_?"

"Yes. And whatever you do, don't leave her here. Can you side-along disapparate with her somewhere?"

_Whatever you do?_ Was Blaise misinterpreting her words, or was Hermione giving him the opportunity to kill the Death Eater? He didn't ask. "Of course I can," he said.

She closed her eyes and nodded rapidly. "I know; I know you can," she told him apologetically. She opened her eyes. "I'm just used to having to spell everything out." She shut her mouth abruptly. Blaise noted that this was the first time Granger had ever come close to acknowledging a fault in her friends while in his presence. She realised it, too—she looked positively guilty. "Well, um, good luck," she finished lamely.

"Good luck," Blaise answered. She would need it on her hare-brained mission.

Hermione turned to go but suddenly spun to face him again. She reached out as if to touch his arm, but apparently thought better of it and dropped her hand at the last second. "Take care of yourself," she said, and this time she sounded like she genuinely meant it.

"You too. And…thanks."

"You're welcome." They looked at one another for a moment, a small space between them, the air thick with what they didn't have the time to say. And then Hermione smiled. It was a weary smile, regretful and resigned, out of place on Veronise's perfect features. "See you later," she said, and stepped away.

Blaise didn't watch her leave. He knelt beside Zenobia and, with three minutes left, side-along disapparated from Ilfracombe.

* * *

A/N: Just a heads-up: Due to my new, busier schedule, updates will probably be more spaced out from now on (as compared to my track record in the spring, NOT the summer). Thank you to all my readers for following, favouriting, and/or reviewing this story! You encourage this authoress!


	9. I'm Beginning to See the Light

A/N: This chapter is named after the song by Rosemary Clooney (it's about time the ladies were represented!). Due to my crazy schedule, this is the last chapter you are going to see for quite a while. I'm sorry!

Note: _"Uffa_" is an Italian exclamation of annoyance or anger.

* * *

The Burrow was unusually quiet these days. The Order of the Phoenix was gasping for its last breaths, and it showed. All free members were routinely funnelled immediately into a new mission, as there were few enough bodies left to complete the tasks at hand. The house was an empty shell of its former lively self. Not that this bothered Blaise. He enjoyed silence, and he savoured the days he was lucky enough to be at headquarters when jokes, retorts, and spells weren't pinging off the walls like frantic sparrows trapped inside the house. Today was not one of those days, however. It was loud inside, too loud—hyped-up light-heartedness trying to mask the heaviness underneath. The strained atmosphere was too much for him, and he wasn't one to pretend when doing so was unnecessary. So he went outside.

Blaise sat on the lawn, a good distance from the house, in a chair he had levitated out from the kitchen. He had coaxed the wireless at his feet to play something approaching decent music, and he was now trying to read. His book wasn't awful; he might have enjoyed it on a better day, but today he was too distracted to concentrate on the words in front of him. The consequences of his choice many months ago were weighing down on him, and he faced the Order's dwindling prospects wearily. The Chosen One and Weasley's whereabouts were still unknown, and the depressing amount of time that had passed since they were last seen was leaving even the most optimistic members of the Order hard-pressed to stay cheerful. They were trying to operate without the two boys, but really, everyone knew their cause didn't stand a chance without Harry Potter. And for Blaise, time was running out.

He heard the grass crunching lightly behind him and turned his head to see Granger coming from the house, carrying a blanket and a book. Their eyes met, but he didn't call out a greeting before turning back to his book. Still, she made her way over, showing just the slightest hesitation. What was it about Granger that always made her confront her perpetual reluctance, treating life like it was a challenge that had to be beaten down? And why in Merlin's name was she treating him differently lately? If they had met like this before the mission to the Ministry of Magic, she would have just looked away and passed him by. Now she seemed determined to act as if they were friends. Which they weren't, and never would be. No amount of posturing and misguided, sickly-sweet gestures could change that.

Hermione stopped beside him. "Hi," she said quietly.

"Hi," Blaise answered briefly without looking up.

She glanced at his book. "Too noisy inside for you?"

He smirked. "Why is it that you Gryffindors feel you must tempt fate with effusive bravado?"

"They're not all Gryffindors," pointed out Hermione.

He shrugged. "They might as well be." She didn't dispute it. They both knew most of the people in the Burrow right now hailed from Granger's own Hogwarts house. They were both silent a minute. Blaise stared at the words in front of him, seeing but not comprehending.

"They're just trying to be positive," Hermione said gently, after a while. "There's so much to wallow in, they might as well celebrate the good while they can. And it's easier when there are more of us together."

"So why aren't you in there?" Blaise asked, still staring at his book.

"I just…I needed peace and quiet, too."

Blaise glanced at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was rather subdued today, not at all like the cheerful girl that had refused to leave him alone in the kitchen last month. She was back to the listlessness that had concerned him prior to the Ministry mission. He wondered, for the thousandth time, how Hermione's mission to Theodore Nott's uncle's house had gone. He glanced at her again. She seemed all right, unharmed. He hadn't heard that she'd needed any medical treatment. Then again, Blaise hadn't heard anything. He wished she'd bring up Ilfracombe so he could ask. He didn't want to appear too interested by bringing it up first.

"What are you reading?" Granger asked, breaking into his thoughts. She didn't sound like she actually cared; she was just trying to fill in the silence. Blaise closed the book and showed her the spine, since the title wasn't on the cover. It read, "Combating the Dark Arts." She tilted her head to read the words. "You weren't in the DA at school," she stated thoughtfully. He didn't answer. "No one ever asked you if you wanted to join, did they?"

"Considering the fact that you and your lot thought every Slytherin was a personal agent for You-Know-Who, I'd have to say no."

"I'm sorry," apologised Granger. "You deserved a chance."

_Uffa_, he didn't want a weepy heart-to-heart with her. It wasn't as though anything she or her friends did had ever mattered all that much to him. "It's fine, Granger," Blaise said curtly. "It's perfectly understandable that you only asked people you trusted. I probably wouldn't have accepted then, anyway. Besides, you've already apologised."

She nodded, looking a little stung. Why did that girl have to be so emotional? He sighed. "So…what are you going to read?"

Hermione looked down at her book before looking up at him with a sheepish smile. "I've read all of the Weasleys' books, not that there was much to begin with. And I've been ready to go out of my mind, sitting here with Harry and Ron gone, nothing to do, nothing to read. So Fleur lent me one of her books."

Blaise could have been a lot denser and still detected that non-answer. "Which is?" he prompted her.

Hermione shifted her weight uneasily and looked at the ground. When she looked up to find his eyes still on her, she apparently decided to get it over with. "It's…an incredibly sappy romance," she reluctantly admitted, flushing scarlet to her hairline. "But I was desperate! I wouldn't be caught dead reading it otherwise!"

Blaise couldn't resist taking a dig at the flustered Hermione. The situation was too priceless to pass up. "Oh, we all knew you spent your nights back at Hogwarts reading those things," he said. "There's no need to pretend you don't devour that rubbish like candy."

"_I do not_!" she exclaimed, highly affronted. And suddenly, there Hermione was again, alive and fiery and present. "I happen to appreciate great literature and didactic material!"

Blaise nodded toward her book. "I'm sure that's didactic enough about certain, shall we say, _situations_." His tone insinuated enough that she flushed four shades darker.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth twice before she finally managed, "You have a dirty mind, Blaise Zabini."

He smirked and leaned back in his chair. "I'm not the one reading that book."

"But you must be well-acquainted with this genre, since you're so sure of its contents," she recovered, surprising him. Granger bantering with him was not something he'd bargained for. That was entirely too…chummy.

"Certainly not. I was just pointing out a bit of common knowledge."

"Common to people who read romance novels, maybe," she smiled. "I'd never have taken you for that kind of man."

"And you'd have been right, because I'd rather face the Cruciatus Curse than touch one of those things!" he retorted. Blaise's social status had definitely fallen since he'd joined the Order. No one had ever dared to exchange banter with him before. Usually they just took his insults, tail between legs, before fleeing. Or they got angry, like Granger used to. He had always preferred that reaction.

Hermione was looking at him deviously. Blaise just had time to get an uneasy feeling before she dropped her novel right in his lap. He jumped up like she'd dumped a bucket of burning coal on him. The book tumbled to the ground as he scrambled away from an obviously unhinged Muggle-born. "_Femmina instabile_!_ È necessario esaminare la testa_!" he shouted. ["Unstable female! You need your head checked!"]

Hermione was laughing. It was the first time in ages that he'd heard her do it for real, not just to project an image on a mission or to pacify someone's concern. It warmed Blaise, though he pushed the feeling down. "Get that thing away from my chair!" he scowled.

Still laughing, Granger scooped the book off the ground. "How dare you treat Fleur's book that way?" she demanded in mock indignation. "I have to give it back to her in good shape, you know, or she won't let me borrow any more."

"And if that happens, you'd die from withdrawals," snorted Blaise, as he came cautiously back, eyeing the book in her hand.

Hermione ignored him and began shaking out her blanket to spread on the grass a few paces away from his chair. "Mind if I sit here?" she asked cheekily, in a tone that made it perfectly clear she was staying whether he wanted her to or not.

"Do what you like, Granger. It's not like I own the lawn." He had managed to get safely back to his chair without making contact with the ridiculous book again.

She settled down onto her blanket, laying on her stomach and holding the book in front of her. "Thanks," she said. "Oh, and by the way, it's Hermione."

Granger, Hermione, Muggle-born, whatever. Blaise settled into his chair without answering and opened his book again, willing himself to understand the dry sentences in front of him. On the ground, Hermione seemed to have settled into her book right away. She had kicked off her shoes and was now idly waving her feet in the air, industriously turning pages. Brown curls continuously escaped from her messy braid, and she pushed them impatiently out of her face, trying to tuck them back into her braid. It was a lost cause, but she was too absorbed in her trashy book to realise this. It was while Blaise covertly watched her push back her hair that he noticed the writing on the inside of her left hand and wrist. He wondered if it was the same quote she had been copying down in Ilfracombe when he had interrupted her. It was short and appeared to be unfinished.

Blaise refocused on his book and eventually managed to force his way through a few pages. The sun moved through the sky, and still Granger lay on the ground next to him, reading her book. Suddenly she gave a groan, shut her book with a snap, and buried her face in her blanket. Blaise looked down at her quizzically but didn't ask. Even the back of her neck was red with what he supposed was embarrassment at something in her book. She peeked up at him from the folds in her blanket and made a face. "_Never _borrow a book from Fleur," she said.

"I wasn't planning on it," Blaise said dryly.

"I mean, really, listen to this," Granger said as she pushed herself up on her stomach again. She flipped her book open and began to read, in a high, syrupy voice, "'_Oh my darling, after you left me, I ceased to care whether I lived or died. I cannot live without you. I cannot even breathe the air unless your own breath has anointed it. Never leave me!'_"

"Granger, stow it before I hex you!" Blaise growled.

She continued, unfazed. Her voice dropped an octave as she delivered the next lines, "'_Never, never again shall I commit the sin of quitting your presence. Your love is to me like the fountain of life, and I wish to ever bathe in its waters.'_" Her voice returned to its normal pitch. "'_His lips devoured hers in a crushing torrent of flaming passion, and…_" Hermione looked up suddenly, her skin tingeing with a faint rosy hue. "I think that's enough."

"My ears are bleeding!" complained Blaise. "It's no wonder Delacour is such a twat. Too much exposure to that rot turned her brain to jelly. Although I must say I'm surprised at you, Granger."

"I already told you, I'm only reading it because I'm desperate for reading material," she explained impatiently. With a grin, she extended the book toward him. "Care to trade?"

He scooted to the far side of his chair, away from the book. "Most certainly not."

"Oh, come now. I think we'd both enjoy each other's books far more than our own."

"Granger, you've tortured my ears enough already. _No_. End of the discussion," he snapped, employing his best _I-am-Blaise-Zabini-and-I-will-be-obeyed _tone of voice.

That made her shut it. She tossed the book to the side and began absently picking at the grass at the edge of her blanket. Blaise was just beginning to understand the sentence he'd already reread six times when Hermione said, "So, how did your mission in Ilfracombe go?"

He looked up. "Fine. Boring. Uneventful, except for what you witnessed. I gathered some bits of information that may or may not be of use to the Order later." And it had been tiring, dull, nerve-wracking work to get even that.

Granger nodded. He waited for her to volunteer information about her own mission. Instead, she asked hesitantly, "And the Death Eater?" She glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye before looking away.

"She's alive," Blaise confirmed. _Just barely._

Hermione exhaled slowly. A moment passed. "How was your mission?" Blaise finally asked, not looking at her.

She sighed. "Difficult. I wouldn't want to do it again, but I was successful." Wow, what an astounding amount of information! It completely explained why the Order had been reckless enough to send one of their most valuable assets into known danger. Granger caught Blaise's questioning look and explained, "It was a retrieval mission. Nott's uncle's greenhouse contains the only known Kylani plant in Great Britain, and we needed two of its leaves immediately for a potion."

"So they sent you to a Death Eater's house without a partner," Blaise stated, voice laced with accusation.

"Actually, it was more of an agreement between Lupin and myself, since there wasn't anyone else here at the time and we needed the leaves immediately. Anyway, I handled it," Granger said stiffly.

_A million variables and you could have died, _Blaise thought angrily. _Then where would we be? No Potter, no Weasley runt, no you._ But he said nothing and only looked away. Hermione went back to picking the grass. He kept expecting her to get up and leave, but she didn't. She seemed to calm down after a while, braiding the grass together instead of ferociously ripping it out. Blaise's eyes drifted back to her wrist. The writing there was too tiny for him to read. Besides, her hand was moving too much.

Hermione looked up quickly, catching Blaise staring. It would be fruitless to look away now. Blast, he might as well be honest about it or she might think he was staring because he fancied her. Which he didn't. At all. Well, maybe just a bit. Blaise gestured to her hand with his book. "Is that what you were writing in Ilfracombe?"

She looked a little surprised. "Yes. Did you want to see?" She held her hand up to face him without waiting for an answer. When Blaise hesitated, she said, "I don't mind. It's not transfigured, remember?"

He bent down to read, resisting the urge to catch her hand and hold it steady.

_"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.  
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." _

There was a space, then some more lines began, as if beginning a new quote.

_"He often used to say there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: its springs were at every doorstep, and every path was its tributary. 'It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out…'"_

Blaise didn't quite grasp why the last quote had appealed to her. It appeared unfinished; he had probably interrupted her while she had been in the middle of copying it down. "That's interesting," he said.

"It's from _The Lord of the Rings_," said Hermione, watching him closely. When he gave her a blank look, she clarified, "They're famous books in the Muggle world."

"It would have to be Muggle, for the characters to have such daft names," Blaise commented, and immediately regretted opening his mouth.

Hermione sighed and looked away. Her gaze fell on Fleur's book, and she picked it up and waved it at him. "Since we've just established that the wizarding world can produce horrid literature, I don't think you're one to talk. _The Lord of the Rings_ is on par with any of the wizarding classics, even if it is a bit pretentious at times. It's a beautiful, moving story about good and evil and wisdom and things worth fighting for!"

He looked at her, flushed with righteous indignation, four curls falling errantly on her cheek. "Does good win?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, but at a price," Hermione answered slowly, as if thinking. "The people who fought are forever changed by what they experienced. Some of them can't ever really go home again. It has a sad ending. Good, but sad."

"What do you mean, 'they can't ever go home again'?"

Hermione sat up, crossed her legs, and rested her hands in her lap. "Well, the main character does go home. And he tries to live there and go back to his old life. He tries to do all the things that he was always wanting to do while the war was going on. But he's been altered, so he can't enjoy it like he once could. And he has a wound that never really healed. In the end, he leaves everything he's fought for—his friends, his country, his home—and goes away forever to a sort of paradise. Because he doesn't really belong in his world anymore."

Part of Blaise wanted to scoff, but another, quieter side was disturbed. "What is it with you and morbid literature, Gra-"

"Hermione," she interrupted firmly. "And it's not morbid. It's thoughtful."

Blaise knew. He knew it wasn't morbid. He understood, better than he would like, that her books and poems allowed her to confront reality in a sharp and honest yet graceful manner. But he had needed to distance himself from her, and so he had been flippant.

They sat quietly for a few more moments. Hermione broke the silence, speaking quietly. "Thank you, Bla—Zabini, for all you do for the Order. I know they're giving you tedious jobs, but it really means a lot—"

"I'm not doing it for you," he interrupted.

"I know," she answered calmly. "But we were never even friendly with you. There's no reason for you to do this that I can see. So I just wanted to thank you for giving us a second chance."

If she was trying to extract an explanation on his change of heart, she wasn't going to get it. Blaise wanted to brush off the thanks, sneer, grind it back into her face. He knew he should. But he just let it settle in the space between them, another white flag of Hermione's that he did not repulse. For one moment in his life, someone thought Blaise Zabini noble.

He turned to face her fully. "Granger," he said seriously, "you don't owe me this."

"What?"

Blaise gestured between them. "This. This, I don't know, mercy mission to integrate me into the Order. We can be on the same side without being chummy. Whatever you may think, I'm perfectly fine alone."

Granger gazed back at him, her sombre expression matching his own. "I'm not doing it because I owe you, and it's not a mercy mission. I'm not even doing it because you deserve a chance. You've had your chance; you've proven yourself; now this" she copied his earlier gesture to indicate the both of them "is how it is. I'm your friend now, Blaise Zabini, whatever you may say about it. And if you would stop trying to sabotage me by always being a git, then _this _would work very well."

Blaise thought about telling her that he didn't need her friendship and didn't want it either, but realized it was too late for that. He had accepted her offer of friendship the moment he allowed her to stay in the kitchen the day they made sebadas. And he had gone further down that road when he had told her about his childhood in Sardegna. It was too late to reclaim his dignity now.

He sighed. "You enjoy this type of thing entirely too much. What are you going to do with yourself once the war is over? End poverty, illiteracy, and class distinctions all before you're thirty?"

Hermione actually smiled. "That would be nice." She stood and began gathering up her things. Blaise fought a feeling of disappointment at her imminent departure. "If you can manage to be civil to the students, you can teach music appreciation at the university," she offered.

"What university?"

"The Albus Dumbledore University that I'm going to help found, of course!"

Blaise groaned. "I can't imagine what induced me to throw my lot in with this delusional pack of positive-thinking, do-gooding Gryffindors!"

"Something good," she grinned, poised to walk away. "Well, I'm going for a walk. Do you want to come?"

And for reasons he couldn't fathom, Blaise said yes. They wandered around the Weasleys' property together before strolling through the remote countryside. Along the way, Hermione tried to explain _The Lord of the Rings _(whose plot was an absolute muddle to Blaise), commented on general Order business, remembered Hogwarts days, and even shared some of her worry about Ron and Harry. She talked, and Blaise mostly listened. It was odd, being with her, hearing her voice, sharing something like companionship. Once he would have spit on such things, believing them to be as filthy as the blood he had thought to run in her veins. But now…now, Blaise didn't even know himself anymore. And a part of him said that perhaps this was an improvement on the way things had been. He didn't stop to examine it.

When they had reached the Burrow again and Blaise was levitating the chair he had left on the lawn, Hermione said, "So, Bla—Zabini, do you think you'll ever give Muggle literature a try?"

He looked over at her. She was windswept and winded and more lovely than he had once ever thought possible. "Not likely," he said. "And it's all right if you call me Blaise."

* * *

A/N: Quotes from _The Fellowship of the Ring _by J.R.R. Tolkien.


	10. The Way We Were

A/N: I am so terribly sorry for the length of time between the previous update and this one. When I started this story, I had no intention of making my readers wait so long or of taking so long to write this story. (I didn't know it was going to be so long, either!) Please forgive me for leaving you all hanging. You're all lovely readers, and I am so thankful to have you along for this story. Unfortunately, I can make no promises about the speed of updates in the future.

Chapter is named after the same-titled song, with the version sung by Doris Day in mind.

Note: I am still working out the chronology of this story, so I reserve the right to modify the timeframe as mentioned in this chapter. If I do so, I will let you know in the author's note for a future chapter.

Happy New Year!

* * *

In the days after her mission to Theodore Nott's uncle's home and before Blaise's return from his Ilfracombe mission, Hermione accompanied Cho Chang on a brief mission. She and Cho were passing an alley in a Muggle city when Hermione saw it happen. A masked young man was training a gun on an elderly man, who visibly trembled as he held out his billfold. Hermione acted without thinking. She drew her wand, and an instant later the gun sailed out of the robber's hand. As both men swung their heads in her direction, Hermione stunned the masked man. He hit the ground with a heavy thud and was quickly followed by the old man, caught deep in a slumber spell.

Hermione glanced around quickly before stepping into the alley. No Muggles had witnessed the incident. After a moment's hesitation, Cho followed her. She stood silently as Hermione checked the masked man for further weapons and, finding none, retrieved his gun from the pavement. Hermione turned it quietly over in her hand, thinking. Since the moment she had faced the Auror in the vault at the Ministry of Magic, she had longed for a backup form of defence should she ever find herself wandless. She never again wanted to experience the awful, exposed desperation she had felt as she stared at the Auror's wand while her own lay somewhere out of reach. Since that day, Hermione had been vigilant about training to be physically prepared should she ever need to employ her hand-to-hand combative skills again. But she knew her physical ability would be useless in a situation in which her enemy was across the room. Looking at the robber's gun, Hermione thought that here, at last, was the answer. It was meagre defence against a wand, to be sure, but it was something. She wouldn't be completely weaponless the next time her wand was _Expelliarmus_'d from her hand if she had a gun hidden on her person.

But was it right to take it? Her eyes drifted down to the robber. He was young, maybe her own age. She wasn't very well going to leave the gun with him. He might use it for further nefarious purposes. Her mind made up, Hermione pocketed the gun. Cho's eyes met hers as she did it, but Cho offered no comment, and Hermione offered no explanation. Instead, Hermione bent over the masked man and began to obliviate him. Cho watched quietly before suddenly brushing past Hermione and bending down to obliviate the elderly man.

Hermione knew there were members of the Order who would not have liked her interfering in "Muggle affairs". They would say the old man, sleeping there and peacefully clutching his billfold, was none of their business, nor was this young miscreant lying here. They would say she had compromised the Order, risked the mission, even jeopardised Harry to deliver this bit of justice in the street. Zabini would say it. Diggle would say it. Maybe even Dumbledore would have said it. But Cho said nothing, made no judgment. And Hermione thought that here was another person she had underestimated, misread, missed the chance to know. Another friendship she could have had if she had learned (and risked) to step beyond the familiar bounds of Ron and Harry and Ginny. What had she been doing all those years at Hogwarts? Cho and Zabini and Hannah Abbott and even pathetic Draco Malfoy and too-far-gone Theodore Nott. They had all been at Hogwarts together and yet they had never really known each other. They could have. They could have helped each other, saved each other even. Instead they all went their separate ways. Cho was heartbrokenly trying to soldier on in the world; Zabini by some miracle had chosen the right side even though he had no ties to it; Hannah was dead; Malfoy was living a whimpering existence with the Death Eaters; and Nott was supposedly an up-and-coming new Death Eater thriving in his last year at Hogwarts under Snape's leadership.

Later, when the mission was successfully completed and Cho had escorted Hermione safely back to the Burrow, Hermione hesitantly asked Cho if she would like some tea before she left. Cho accepted, and they sat together on the porch, sipping tea as they watched the sunset. They talked about Cho's job and the difficulties she faced as a closeted Order member. Neither mentioned Cedric, though Hermione thought, judging from the flashes of pain that crossed Cho's face whenever the subject wandered too near him, that the hurt of the loss still lingered. They talked about easy things—at least, easier things than death and torture and double crossing and the missing Chosen One. And sometimes they didn't talk at all, just watched the sun sink lower in the sky, but that was all right.

"Cho?" Hermione asked.

The other girl shifted to look at her. "Yes?"

"We could have been good friends at Hogwarts." The words lingered in the air as the girls searched each other's faces and Hermione's hands curled around her cup. Cho's shoulders slumped as she exhaled. "We should have been," continued Hermione. "I don't know why we weren't. We have so much in common. You could have balanced out all that male companionship I had, and I…could have been there…"

"It's all right," said Cho, saving Hermione from ending a sentence she'd never really meant to finish. "But you're right. We could have been friends. I guess you just don't see what you need in other people until your eyes have been opened by hardship." Cho looked down at her cup. "There were people at Hogwarts who really weren't worth the time I spent on them. I wish I could have all that time back, so I could spend it with people who really mattered." She looked up and squared her shoulders. "Life is too short to waste your time doing anything else."

"I'm sorry I overlooked you," apologised Hermione.

"I'm sorry, too." Cho held out her hand. "Friends?"

"Friends," Hermione confirmed, squeezing Cho's hand.

As they finished their tea and the shadows lengthened on the Weasley lawn, Hermione considered Cho's words and realised that hardship had opened her own eyes as well. Now that her chances of living to see a happy, peaceful future seemed slim, Hermione valued even more those things she had always thought most important—friendship, bravery, loyalty, love. She was learning to recognise those qualities in persons she had once quickly dismissed in her younger days. Cho was right. Life was too short to miss out on those things, no matter what form they came in.

* * *

They finally received an owl. It was cryptic, coded, and vague, and the bird itself was nearly dead from exhaustion. They brought the note to Hermione, who knew both boys best and would understand, more than anyone, what they were trying to say. She held it with trembling hands, the fear that had accumulated in their absence nearly incapacitating her as she faced the final word. The note said that the boys had been tracked by Death Eaters and had been unable to send an owl; they had been captured; they had endured who-knew-what; and they had escaped. Now they were following an urgent lead for a Horcrux in Romania and would be in touch with Charlie Weasley. There was no time to come back for her. They would be all right.

Hermione felt the need to sit down and stumbled into a chair at the table. She stared at the small, dirty scrap of paper with the words for which she had waited one month, three weeks, and five days. Ron and Harry were alive. After all this time, they were still alive and free. She could scarcely believe it. Relief crested before her in a wave, and she was afraid to open herself up to it lest the next message should bring worse news. The boys had been captured by Death Eaters and they had escaped—how had Harry managed to survive that ordeal? And how had they managed to escape without her there to help them? Now they were trekking across Romania without her. They were going to do it all alone. And she would be here, trapped in the Burrow, unable to help, unable to solve problems and puzzle out mysteries, unable even to hand them a quill from her bag if they needed it. She was powerless to assist them.

But they were alive and well enough to owl headquarters. And suddenly relief came crashing over Hermione and she leaned forward onto the table and wept. All the nightmares of the past two months fled before the words on that tiny piece of paper. The guilt she had carried since she woke from her illness to find that the boys had been forced to leave without her lessened, faced with the fact that they had not died because she could not be there to help them. The shame that she had felt for every happy moment she had experienced in their absence lightened. And with the dulling of that heavy, heavy load, Hermione was able to breathe more freely than she had in two months.

Frantic voices came into focus. "Hermione! Hermione, what's happened?" Hands were touching her back and shoulders. She could feel the fear in their contact.

She raised her head and met Blaise's dark eyes watching her silently across the room. "They're all right," she said. And she told them what the note said. The distress in the room was replaced with concerned relief. And eventually they moved on, went about their business, and left Hermione alone. She sat and clutched the note and thought.

Days later, Hermione realised there had never been a moment of truth about her relationship with Ron. There had never been a time when she thought, "I love him, and I may never see the love of my life again." It had been the distress of friend for friend—a bitter draught in itself, but less than the hysteria she would have felt once. She did love him; she loved him and Harry equally, and had done so for a long time. Either of their deaths would desolate her, because the three of them were so closely knit. But the time for blushes and anger and jealousy and giggles was past. She would stand by them and fight with them and perhaps die for them, but she would do it for friendship. Theirs were her most treasured friendships, and she would love Ron and Harry until the day she died. But her heart was free.


	11. This Gun Don't Care

A/N: As this story is an AU, we are going to do a little reality bending and assume a certain red-haired royal was born c. 1980. Why? Because an idea gripped me during the Royal Wedding brouhaha and wouldn't let go. (Yes, portions of this chapter have been written for _that long_.)

This chapter is named after (and partly inspired by) the same-titled song, with Ella Fitzgerald's version in mind.

* * *

It was a quiet day in the Burrow for Hermione. Everyone was out except for Blaise, who was off in the bathroom getting ready to pick up this week's Polyjuice samples from Manchester. To occupy herself, Hermione had cooked her own meal, Muggle style, and was now setting her place at the table. She had just set down her glass of apple juice when, behind her, someone entered the room and said in an injured tone, "This man has a ridiculous haystack as an excuse for hair."

Hermione turned around and gasped. That wasn't…that couldn't be… But it looked like him! The same jaunty red hair, pale white and pink face, and bluish eyes. But…! Her mind blanked. "P-P-Prince H-Harry?" she gasped.

The man looked annoyed. "Firstly, as extraordinary as you think he is, Potter is not a prince," he said, "and secondly, Potter looks nothing like this. If anything, this fellow looks like a Weasley."

Hermione's mind reeled. That wasn't… Oh, please, no. "Zabini?" she ventured.

"Oh, it's back to last names, is it?" he said coolly.

Hermione tried again, hoping against hope that this was not what it looked like. "Blaise?"

"Who do you think—the Queen of England?" he asked sarcastically.

Hermione found she couldn't answer that and sat down instead. Or rather, she tried to sit down but nearly missed the chair. She had to reach out behind her and grasp the chair with two hands to guide her backside to a safe landing. Hermione sat and gaped at the image of Prince Harry in the Weasley's kitchen. Her world had been inverted, turned inside out, and then shaken for good measure. Her blank mind had settled around one fact: this was not good. This was very not good. She suddenly realised that she was repeating, "Oh, Merlin; oh, Merlin; oh, Merlin," as a sort of rhythmic mantra and made herself shut it. She tried to bring herself under control. "Blaise, you cannot go out like that."

"Why ever not?"

"Because you'll be _mobbed_. Girls and women will rush after you screaming. This is, this is—"

Blaise interrupted her. He was regarding her quizzically from across the room. "Really, Hermione," he said dryly, "I know you favour ginger hair, but try to control yourself. This man is not as handsome as you seem to think. He believes a proper haircut resembles a hoopoe spreading its crown feathers."

His comment about her favouring ginger hair brought her to herself. Of all the nerve! This was not the time for Blaise to develop a latent sense of humour! "Do you see this look on my face, Zabini?" she snapped. "This is not attraction. This is _horror_, shock, panic!" Her hands were up in the air, palms facing toward herself and flying about to emphasise each word.

"Oh, so this lad is a serial murderer or rapist or something?"

"No! He, he—no! Just shut it for a moment, will you?"

"Granger, how much sleep did you get last night?" Blaise asked gravely.

"I said to _shut it_!" Hermione snapped angrily. "I'm trying to think!" Blaise opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it when she pointed her index finger at him and glared threateningly over it.

Blaise had taken Polyjuice that made him look like Prince Harry. And not just _like _him, but the exact image of him. That was not stealth. That was announcing to the entire world their location. Later it would be figured out that the real Prince Harry had been somewhere else while the Zabini Prince Harry got chased by a pack of girls like the Beatles in that one movie her dad had made her watch when she was ten. Then everyone, Muggles and wizards alike, would try to figure out what had happened. And surely some wizards would. At the very least, their source for Polyjuice samples would be compromised. In the name of Merlin's beard, this was a very bad thing.

Hermione refocused to find Blaise eyeing her like she had sprouted a dozen bubotubers out of her head. And why wasn't this prat familiar with the British monarchy? Curse his vain, self-centred little worldview! She decided to try to do this as patiently as possible. "Blaise, you do know that there actually is a queen of England?"

"Of course," he said peevishly.

"And that she has a son, Prince Charles?"

He shrugged disinterestedly. "The entire British monarchy can take a flying leap as far as I'm concerned, and I fail to see why we're wasting precious time discussing them."

Coiling tension and rising anger threatened to defeat her go at patience. With heroic effort, Hermione decided to ignore his remark completely. "And he married Princess Diana. Surely you've heard of her?"

He gave her a dirty look. "No, Hermione, I'm only an ignorant Italian who somehow managed to spare his ears from having to hear the accolades of Princess Diana at her death."

Brilliant, so he knew something. "And they had two sons, Prince William and Prince Harry." Blaise shifted in his chair and gave her his full attention, but said nothing. "And you…you somehow managed to get Prince Harry's hair sample for your Polyjuice." She winced.

"Don't be fanciful, Granger," Blaise said uncertainly.

"I'm afraid I'm completely serious. You look just like Prince Harry. Not sort of like, but exactly like."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I'm a girl who grew up in the Muggle world! Every Muggle girl knows what Prince William and Prince Harry look like. They're the most eligible bachelors in Britain! They could reign over the Muggle British government one day!"

"So you have a personal interest in this Prince Harry?"

Hermione knew that was a comment completely beside the point, but she couldn't let it go without refuting it. She tried to think of a parallel example from Italian wizarding culture, not that she knew much. What was that sultry singer's name? Ah, that was it. "Blaise, do you know what Arietta Russo looks like?"

"Arietta _Rossi_," he corrected quietly, "and yes, I do."

"So?" she raised her eyebrow at him.

"So, if I go out in public I'll drown in an overload of horrible pick-up lines and free drinks?"

Blaise had a point there—maybe a famous female was not a good example. Hermione tried to think of a wizarding male equivalent to Prince Harry. "Remember when Viktor Krum visited Hogwarts and all the girls chased him around? Try imagining that magnified about five hundred times."

"Oh, so my eardrums will explode from exposure to those unholy banshee screams that fame seems to inspire in girls, and I'll be lucky if my limbs are still connected to my torso afterward."

Finally, he was getting it. "Precisely."

This last mental image seemed to convince Blaise that modification, at least, was necessary. There was no time to wait for the Polyjuice to wear off so that he could use a different sample. Since he had limited knowledge of conventional Muggle appearances, Blaise agreed to allow Hermione to rearrange him. He assured her that this was the only circumstance he would ever allow her to make his fashion choices for him and warned her of the consequences should she should permanently alter anything.

Hermione shoved her hand into her robe pocket, her fingers closing around the wand there as she half-listened to Blaise talking. She chose to overlook his threats, because she judged that he was not wholly serious and she wanted to pick her battles. Speaking of which… Hermione interrupted him mid-rant. "Fine, Blaise. But I have one condition."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. It was disconcerting to see such an entirely Blaise-like expression on Prince Harry's face. "And that would be?"

"I'm going with you," Hermione said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. She knew she was in for a big argument with Blaise about this, as he always seemed to be so concerned about her being captured and subsequently spilling information to Death Eaters. And she knew from experience that he wouldn't hesitate to use force to get his way. But this was important. He needed someone with him who could handle any potential Prince Harry-related mishaps.

"No, you're not," was Blaise's immediate answer.

"Look, whatever disguise I give you might not be enough to prevent your being recognised. What are you going to do if you _are _spotted? Draw your wand in the middle of Manchester? That'll go well."

"Hermione, we both know that you aren't supposed leave the Burrow unless it is an emergency. The Order can't afford to lose you."

Blaise was right about her being confined to the Burrow. The Order had decided it was best, as Hermione knew more about Harry Potter and his plans than any of the rest of them, and they did not want to risk that information being extracted by Death Eaters. So, much to Hermione's chagrin, the Order expected her to sit in the Burrow while everyone else risked their lives and pulled their own weight. She hated it. "Blaise, this _is_ an emergency. You won't know what to do if you're spotted, and you could cause a huge scene in the middle of Manchester. Not to mention you'll compromise the location of our Polyjuice source and be in danger yourself. You need someone with you who understands Muggles!"

"No."

It infuriated Hermione that Blaise only deigned to waste one word on her. She gripped her wand more tightly. "It's not like I'm asking to go in your place. If there was anyone else here, the wisest thing would be to send them. But there's not, so the best thing is for me to go with you."

"No."

"It's not like I'll be by myself! You'll be with me!" It was an argument completely out of keeping with Hermione's character, but one which she thought might reach him. This was what she, the capable, "brightest" witch had been reduced to, all because of the Order's silly rule.

Blaise glared at her. "I know what happens when you go out on a mission. You get distracted and deviate off course. What if there's some automobile accident and you decide to help? What if someone's being robbed? You'll be the first to jump in, and every deviation you take is a risk! I'm not going to let that happen." He made a wide sweeping motion with his hands to indicate the Burrow. "This is the safest place for you."

Hermione thanked her stars Blaise didn't know about the alleyway mugging she had intervened in three weeks ago. "I won't! This is your mission, and I will be there to support you. That's all. I promise I won't do any deviating! I'll just be there to help."

"I don't need your help! _Uffa_, Hermione, I can take care of myself!"

Hermione's patience snapped, and she raised her voice. "I've had it with your stupid pride and thinking you know best and believing everything is about you! This is not about your capability! It's about a known risk that I can help alleviate! And I'm the _only _one who can do it, because I'm the only one here! And we've wasted too much time already, and I'm going whether you like it or not!"

Blaise pulled himself to his full height. "Merlin, Granger!" he growled. "You make everything so difficult!"

"_You _make everything so difficult, _Zabini_," Hermione shot back.

They glared at each other for a few moments. Hermione was not going to lose this battle. She wasn't. Blaise needed her help, whether he acknowledged it or not. She kept an eye on his hands to make sure he wasn't going to try some foolishness like a body-bind curse or something.

Blaise exhaled roughly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Hermione, I know you've been holding your wand in your pocket this whole time."

Hermione cringed. So much for secrecy. How had he noticed? "Well, I wouldn't need to be so paranoid around you if you'd proven in the Ministry of Magic that you could have a mature argument without using your wand."

His eyes looked away from hers for a moment before returning. "Fine. I won't use mine if you won't use yours."

"Fine," said Hermione, not letting go of her wand.

"So let go of your wand," said Blaise.

She made a face at him. "No! I don't trust you!" He looked almost hurt for the briefest of seconds before an indifferent expression settled on his face. Hermione regretted the phrasing of her words. She did trust Blaise in many, many things, but not in this.

"That's fair," said Blaise. He shifted so that his hands were in plain sight. "Look, Hermione, I know we've had this conversation before, but you don't seem to understand. You alone are worth more than me and every Order member under age thirty put together. No matter what you want to think, the Order is not egalitarian. The minute the war started, the stakes were raised, and it just so happens that you, because of your association with Potter, are more valuable and thus in more danger than the rest of us."

Something in Hermione appreciated that Blaise was trying to control his anger and speak reasonably, even if she thought he was wrong. "I've heard all that before," she told him. "And I still stand by my reasons. It's Muggle Manchester, for goodness' sake, Blaise! You go there every week. How many Death Eaters are in that area?"

He folded his arms. "That's not the point. The point is that it doesn't matter if I get in trouble, but it matters immensely if you do."

"You and I are never going to agree about that, so how about you just agree to let me go with you instead of my following you? I'm not even sure where you're going, so I'd have to wander the streets of Manchester and that has to be more dangerous for me than if we were together." Hermione smirked, feeling that she had at last found her trump card. "So make your choice, Blaise, because one of the two is definitely going to happen."

Blaise looked away and passed a hand over his face with a huff of exasperation. "Merlin, Hermione, why do you have to be so difficult?"

"Because I'm right!"

He glanced at her. "You know what? Fine. You win this time. But you are staying next to me the whole time and doing what I say. I don't care if a building collapses and traps a baby! We're staying on course!"

"Fine!"

They eyed each other, Hermione still gripping her wand. Blaise sighed and gestured to himself. "So are you going to modify my appearance or what?"

"Yes!" answered Hermione snappishly. "Just let me think a moment. You have a very recognisable face!" A moment passed, and Hermione was able to clear her head and focus on the task at hand. She was baffled. How could she hide Prince Harry in plain sight? After more thought, she settled on a punk look—blue Mohawk, black studded jacket, tartan trousers and all. She racked her brain for a popular punk band name to emblazon on a T-shirt and could only come up with "The Cure". Well, that would have to do. Hopefully the band wasn't too dated.

Blaise did not like the punk look. With every new detail Hermione added or transfigured, his complaints only increased. That boy was always so self-satisfied. It wasn't like Hermione was trying to ruin his life. She was trying to help him! Perhaps his snarky attitude got a bit on her nerves, and that was why the Mohawk ended up blue. Hermione told him she had to do it to hide the red hair. When she stepped back to survey her handiwork, she would have lied if she said Blaise's highly annoyed yet miserable expression did not satisfy her as much as his costuming.

"What are you smirking at?" Blaise grumbled suspiciously.

Hermione tried to make her face look blank. "I'm not smirking."

Blaise crossed his arms as he shifted uncomfortably in his tight trousers. "Yes, you are."

"If I am smiling, it is because I think I did a brilliant job making Prince Harry look like an average Muggle."

Blaise frowned as he watched her trying to hide her smile. "You're not having any fantasies about your Prince Harry in this get-up, are you?"

Hermione spluttered. "What? NO! I—he—you—I—that's ridiculous! Agh!" She covered her eyes and tried to wipe out the mental image. "Blaise Zabini," she said between clenched teeth, eyes still closed, "the next time this happens I will just let you get mobbed. It will be far less trouble."

Blaise gave a gravelly chuckle. "I was just trying to figure out where this clothing idea came from."

Hermione uncovered her eyes to glare at him. "You're a punk, Blaise. A punk. A rebellious Muggle."

"I've never seen a Muggle like this, and I go to Manchester every week."

"Well, you haven't been paying attention to your surroundings," sniffed Hermione. She subsequently ignored Blaise's reply as she took her own Polyjuice Potion, which transformed her into a short, muscular woman who appeared to be from the Pacific Islands. This look gave her a lot to work with. Using sticking charms, she covered herself in piercings—four or five on each ear, not to mention the eyebrows and lip. Blaise looked on with obvious disgust.

"Hermione, if anyone had any doubt before, you are now officially and completely mental," he said.

"Oh, just stow it," she snapped, applying dark eye makeup heavily before moving on to transfigure her outfit into a black tank, black jeans, and black combat boots. "All right, I'm ready."

Blaise surveyed her. "You look like a freak," he stated.

Hermione nodded with satisfaction. "Good. You probably don't look freakish enough. Maybe a tattoo here, on your arm." She used her wand to create a wavy black band of ink on Blaise's left upper arm. "Anything to draw attention from your face."

"Muggle women must have an appalling sense of good looks for this face to attract attention," grumbled Blaise. "Am I freakish enough now?"

"It will have to do," Hermione said. "Whatever you do, stay close to me. Now let's get this over with."

They apparated to Manchester and strolled down the streets to the dry cleaning shop, garnering plenty of curious looks on the way. Everything went marvellously until they had collected their samples and were on their way back to their disapparating point. Two young women across the street did a double-take and then started whispering frantically to one another. "Oh, Merlin," said Hermione under her breathe to Blaise. "You've been spotted. Walk faster."

But it was too late. The girls were already crossing the street and running toward them. "Instructions?" Blaise asked her quietly.

"Laugh it off. You are not him," Hermione hissed back.

The girls caught up to them. They were ridiculously blonde and looked like they spent all their time in tanning salons and shopping centres. The blondest one stepped around Blaise and stopped in front of him, forcing him to come to a halt. She put her hands on her hips and batted her eyelashes. "Prince Harry! What brings you to our part of town?"

"I'm sorry, you must be lost. The mental asylum's that way," said Blaise, pointing behind him. Hermione resisted the urge to smack herself in the head.

Both girls giggled. "Oh, you can't fool us, Your Highness," cooed the first one. "We'd recognise you anywhere."

"We subscribe to all your fan periodicals, we read every news article about you, we know about your every sighting! We absolutely adore you!" sighed the second.

A group of three girls passing by on the sidewalk unfortunately overheard this already unfortunate conversation and stopped to examine Blaise with interest. "Prince Harry?" inquired one.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," said Blaise.

"Oh my gosh, it's Prince Harry!" declared another. "I'd know him anywhere!"

Hermione and Blaise found themselves suddenly surrounded by starry-eyed girls squealing "Prince Harry! Prince Harry!" Incredibly, more girls seemed to be showing up every second. "I must insist that you are mistaken!" bellowed Blaise, trying to fend off the girls as they reached pawing hands toward him. "If I were a prince, I would exhibit considerably better fashion sense!" He paused and Hermione used the opportunity to hook her arm through his and pull him forward, steering him around the bimbos. Over his shoulder Blaise added, "_And_ I would have a markedly better hairstyle." The girls laughed raucously in appreciation of his wit and scampered after him. They grew quiet as they seemed to notice Hermione for the first time. She could feel their judgmental glares burning holes in her back.

A brown-haired girl in a green boob tube skirted around from behind and blocked Hermione's path. "Excuse me, who are you?" the girl demanded, her tone laced with venom.

"Someone with a life," snapped Hermione, and immediately thought, _Very diplomatic, Hermione. Skilful way to handle the situation. _She tried to manoeuvre her way around the girl, but the girl moved to block Hermione's path again. Other girls spilled out from behind them to encircle Blaise and Hermione in a wall of bodies.

The girl narrowed her eyes at Hermione but turned to Blaise instead. "Your Highness," she said, trying to take his other arm. Blaise held it woodenly by his side, and she was forced to let it go. "This is a fab new look," she said, looking him up and down with appreciation. There were some enthusiastic murmurs of agreement from the others. Hermione glared at all of them. Blaise was not a piece of meat! The girl continued, "However did you think of it?"

Hermione stepped in front of Blaise, blocking off the brunette's access to him. "He already told you," Hermione hissed. "He's not Prince Harry. He's just a punk who doesn't want idiots bothering him."

"How dare—!" began a girl nearby, who was silenced with a wave of the brunette's hand.

The brunette narrowed her eyes and sidled closer to Hermione. "I think he can talk just fine," she said. "Trying to keep him all to yourself? I don't think so. Now get out of our way, slut!"

"Now really, ladies!" began Blaise. As the crowd pressed closer, he let out a surprised squeak, which would have been comical except for their situation. "Ladies, I must demand that you keep your hands to yourself!"

Hands from all sides were dragging Hermione away from Blaise, who himself was being tugged in every direction. Oh, Merlin. What an absolutely horrendous day. Hermione was _not _about to stand by and watched Blaise get kidnapped by a bunch of rabid girls. She shook off her captors. One especially persistent clinger required two good open-palmed jabs in the face to loosen her grip. Hermione reached inside her bag and quickly located her fail-safe for situations in which a wand was not an option. She held it up and aimed steadily. Those nearest her gasped and jumped away. "Excuse me, ladies!" Hermione shouted. When that failed, she resorted to "Oi! Oi!" until she got their attention. The hysterical din died down as they noticed the gun. She levelled it at the crowd of girls, swinging it slowly back and forth. As Hermione stepped forward, her way cleared, and she retrieved Blaise from his admirers. She dragged his rather rumpled person to a standing position alongside herself and pulled him with her as she backed away. "That's right, you just stay away from us," she said.

The young women watched with wide eyes filled with keen resentment and disappointment. A bolder one who looked like she wanted to rip Hermione apart with her bare hands challenged bitterly, "Just who do you think you are?"

The girl's hateful stare inspired Hermione to do a wicked, rash thing. "Why, Prince Harry's bodyguard, of course," she replied, answering the girl's murderous look with one of her own. To Blaise, she said, "Prince Harry, please step behind me. You never know what these young hooligans are capable of." A dumbfounded Blaise shot her a look before complying. Gun still pointed, Hermione and Blaise backed away along the street. "Remember this day, girls. This is the day you almost mauled a possible future ruler of Britain. I hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourselves. What would your mothers think? Now I strongly suggest you continue on your way and cause no further disturbance."

"But—" a short blonde began to protest.

Hermione's glare and gun zeroed in on her with deadly accuracy. "I don't have time for this," she said coldly. "All of you, get out of here!"

The girls dispersed down the street, but very few actually left. They kept a wary eye on Hermione and a wistful one on Blaise. "Forget the piercings," breathed Blaise behind her back. "This tops it all. You're completely unhinged!"

Hermione gritted her teeth, diligently keeping an eye on the peripheral. "Just get us out of here once we round the corner!" she shot back.

As soon as they turned the corner, Blaise wrapped his arms around Hermione from behind, and they side-along disapparated. They landed on a barren seashore, and Blaise's arms tightened as they stumbled backward. Hermione could feel her heart racing in her chest from the stress of Manchester. She stood still and concentrated on deep breaths. "Those idiots!" she growled. "I can_not_ believe that just happened!"

"It was quite an experience," Blaise agreed from behind her.

Hermione realised she was leaning into him and disentangled herself from Blaise's arms. It was a comforting position and all, but it wouldn't do. "I'm sorry," she told him.

"For what?" he asked.

"For that," she gestured behind her, as if loony girls were standing there still. "I don't want you to think all Muggle girls are like that."

"I know they aren't," he said, gazing at her seriously. She only had one second to get uncomfortable before his expression lightened. "But I think most of them are."

She _humphed_. "No, they aren't. You just have colossally bad luck, that's all. That's why we walked into a whole horde of the most addlepated girls in England."

"'Addlepated'?" asked Blaise, raising an eyebrow. She knew him well enough now to recognise that he was teasing her.

She snorted through her nostrils. "Yes, addlepated. And twaddle-brained, daft, nit-witted, inane, fatuous, and obtuse!" she finished, stomping around to emphasise each word.

Blaise smirked. "Quite a vocabulary you've got there, Hermione."

She waved the gun in his direction, careful not to actually point it at him. "Don't cross me. I'm the one with the gun."

"Yes, where does that come from? Does it even shoot?"

"Oh, so you know what a gun is then, do you?" she asked, skirting the question. "This is insurance for when a wand's not handy. I'm extremely grateful I had it."

Blaise crossed his arms and looked at her. "So, do you think you overreacted a bit back there, Hermione?"

She made a face at him. "Of course not. If I hadn't stepped in, the street sweeper would be picking your parts off the street tomorrow. Unless of course you were enjoying the attention?"

To her chagrin, he laughed. It was the second time she'd ever heard his laugh, and it surprised her just as much as the first. His laugh was all warm tones and made her feel wonderful just to hear it. A little giddy, too. _Dangerous ground, Hermione…_ "I had it all under control," he answered when he had calmed down. "You have to admit the screams hadn't quite reached banshee proportions."

She stuffed the gun into her bag, turned her back to him, and crossed her arms. "A simple thank-you would do very nicely," she said stiffly.

He was silent for a moment. Then, very quietly in her ear, he said, "Thank you, Hermione. _Sei meraviglioso_."

She would have whirled on him, but she could feel his breath on her neck. Instead she turned just slightly. He was very near. "What does that even mean?" she demanded, feeling put out.

Blaise chuckled, and even that was such a nice sound that Hermione found it hard to remember exactly what had upset her. He held out his hand. "Come on, let's get back to the Burrow."


End file.
